


An Altered Melody

by xenascully



Series: Castiel's Army [5]
Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 49,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1410652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenascully/pseuds/xenascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Dean didn't go to Lisa and Ben, to live the apple-pie life Sam made him promise to. LONG-AWAITED SEQUEL to Hel On Earth. This is how I pictured life after the events in Supernatural's Swan Song, had the events in my crossover series actually taken place in the show. So, I suppose in a way, this is a bit of an AU...but the stories remain on-track with the shows, themselves, so I didn't want to label it as such. If you can't tell, I was never a big fan of the Lisa/Ben storyline (outside of the initial meeting of them). I just don't feel like it fit well with Dean's personality, to disrupt a family household like that, with his past; he would've foreseen the monsters following him, and using them against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean would keep his promise to Sam. Even though all he wanted to do was to die or find a way to get his brother back, he would do what he'd been asked; quit hunting, live the apple-pie life. Stay alive and don't look for deals to get Sam out of Hell. Well, he'd do most of that. He'd stay alive and quit hunting... 

As far as living the apple-pie life? Well, there was just too much at stake for Lisa and Ben for him to even consider going to them. They didn't ask for this...this life. Lisa had a son to worry about. She didn't need to be keeping sharp objects out of Dean's reach, after all.

So, he did the only other thing he could think of. He drove. Specifically, he drove east. Dean wasn't even aware how long he'd been driving. His thoughts were too busy trying to hang on to the reason why he couldn't just drive a little faster and jerk the wheel a bit to the right, sending the car over the gated edge of the mountain-cliff. 

It was only when he spotted the highway sign for Morgantown that he recalled where he'd been headed. That's when he decided that he should probably call before just showing up on the doorstep like a lost puppy.

He popped open the glove compartment to fish out his cell phone. He'd put it there before pulling into the cemetery, so he wouldn't be interrupted when he tried to... Well, that wasn't important anymore. But he'd forgotten that Sam's phone was in there too. Before they'd headed into that apartment in Jersey, Sam had put it there for safe keeping. Now Dean held it in his hand, staring at it like it was a piece of his brother...

A horn honked somewhere ahead of him, making him look up and jolt the car back into the right lane. “Damnit,” he cursed, stuffing the phone in his jacket pocket before reaching in and getting his own, and slamming the compartment closed again. Scanning the road ahead of him and making sure there was nothing but straight road and no cars, he glanced down at the screen on his phone. Opening the contact list, he scrolled down until he reached his code name for Gibbs: Challenger71. 

Dean hit the dial button and held the phone to his ear, thinking of what the hell he could possibly say when the man answered. But much to his dismay, the line went straight to voice mail. He panicked and ended the call. Never be unreachable. That was one of Gibbs' rules. What had he said that last day? Anniversaries. Christ. What a fucking coincidence.

He looked through his contacts again. Mustang66. Tony. Dean waited a moment before hitting the call button this time. But once he dialed and put the phone to his ear and that ringing started, his mind drew a complete blank.

“Dean-freaking-Winchester, is that you, man?” Tony sounded happy on the other line. It was pretty instantaneous that the memories of being around the guy flashed before Dean's eyes. “Hey, are you there?”

Oh yeah...talking, Dean thought. “Hey,” his voice cracked, and he stopped to clear his throat. “Hey, Tony. How are ya?”

“I...hell, man...it's been what? Three years?”

“Yeah... Geez yeah, I guess it has.” Dean suddenly felt horrible about not having kept in touch with them. 

“Are you okay, man?” Tony must have sensed something in Dean's uncharacteristic silence.

“Actually...no,” Dean sounded suddenly very small. “I uh... Would you...would you and Gibbs mind if I uh...”

“Dean, what's going on? Are you in trouble?” Tony sounded worried.

“Not really, no. It's just...I made this promise to Sammy,” his voice cracked again, and he cleared his throat accordingly. “Tony, Sam's gone... Sam's...Sammy's dead,” he couldn't stop the shakiness in his voice, from holding back tears he shouldn't even physically be able to shed any more of.

Tony was silent on the other line for a moment. “Where's Cas?” the raspy sound of his voice pulled at Dean's heart. 

“Off fighting a war in Heaven,” he replied. “Anyway, he couldn't help him. It's...kind of a long story.”

“Where are you, Dean?”

“Couple...maybe three hours out.”

“Come over. Go to Gibbs' house. You remember where?”

“Yeah,” came out almost as a whisper.

“I'll meet you over there. Just...God, Dean, just be careful, alright? Get here in one piece?”

“Yeah,” he said again. “Thanks, man.” He ended the call before the lump in his throat gave away how hard this all was for him...

*~.~*

“What are you doin' here so late, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked as Tony came down the basement steps.

“Got a phone call a couple of hours ago, boss,” he replied, sinking down to sit on the bottom step. “Guessing he tried to call you first.”

“Yeah well,” Gibbs went back to carving the wooden leg of his most recent project, “Anyone knows me, knows today my phone is off after work. Except my damned ex.”

“It was Dean Winchester,” Tony told him, and Gibbs looked over at his senior field agent in question. “Sam's dead.” 

It was like a punch in the gut, hearing those words and seeing the sadness in Tony's eyes. “Castiel?”

“Couldn't help him,” Tony replied. “Guess he'll explain that better once he gets here.”

“He's comin' here?”

“I told him to. Hope that's okay, boss. I know it's been three years-”

“'Course it's okay,” Gibbs put the chisel down and swiped a hand down his face. “Kid must be a wreck. When did this happen?”

“He didn't say. But I'm guessing it wasn't long ago. He should be here any time.” 

Like clockwork, there was a knock at the door upstairs. Gibbs and Tony shared a quick glance before heading up. Tony hung back a bit as Gibbs went to open the door. And there stood Dean, looking ten kinds of awful. Gibbs wasn't sure what to say as the younger man met his eyes.

“That offer...being welcome here anytime...still open?” Dean asked in as strong a voice as he could manage.

“Always has been,” Gibbs told him softly, then pulled him in for a hug. Dean accepted it, continuing to try and keep himself together. Over Gibbs' shoulder, Dean spotted Tony a few feet away. Gibbs pulled away. “I'll get you some coffee,” he told Dean, shutting the door before heading toward the kitchen.

Dean gave a short nod before looking to Tony again. The younger man seemed stuck where he stood, and was a bit grateful when Tony started toward him. Wordlessly, he was drawn into another embrace and he remembered the talk they'd had out on the porch years before. Tony understood. Maybe more than any of them. And just like that, Dean couldn't hold it in anymore.

Tony felt Dean's arms tighten around him, followed by the unmistakeable shaking sobs that wracked the man's body. It broke his heart, and he wished more than anything that he could fix all of this; bring Sam back. But if Dean couldn't...if Cas couldn't, then how could he?

“I'm sorry,” Tony nearly whispered as he held onto him. “God I'm so sorry, Dean...I'm so sorry...” and he couldn't hold back his own tears...


	2. Chapter 2

Neither of them were sure how long they'd stood there; Dean holding onto Tony as if he were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world right then, as he let out all of the hurt he'd forced himself to hold in when driving. He needed to stay alive, after all. Wrecking the car because his eyes were swelled shut from crying would technically have been breaking his promise to Sam.

Dean couldn't remember ever exposing so much of his inner turmoil to anyone before in his life. Then again, he couldn't remember ever feeling so absolutely devastated either. That, and he hadn't slept. Not a wink. After saying goodbye to Bobby, he'd hit the road. He stopped once and tried like mad to sleep. But every time he'd gotten close, he'd remember, “Sammy's dead.” His eyes would spring open, accompanied by a burning sensation in his chest. He'd figured that that's how it felt when your heart was tearing apart.

Dean couldn't help but to feel a little bad about leaving Bobby. It wasn't like this hadn't affected the old man, too, after all. He didn't need to second-rate Bobby's own pain, and he wasn't really up for returning any comfort. That wouldn't have even been possible.

It was different for Bobby, he supposed. Dean had always been Bobby's favorite. He had right to be. Everything Dean had ever known or done had been for Sam. Sam was covered in the 'favorite' category. It was Dean's. But Bobby loved Dean for that; for everything the kid had managed to do his entire life, and especially those things he shouldn't have had to do. Dean had never complained. He loved his little brother, and to Dean there was nothing else more important in the whole wide world. So of course Bobby was worried about Dean. Part of him had jumped right into that pit with his little brother.

Dean, however, wasn't ready for Bobby's...whatever he'd had planned for him. And Bobby wouldn't be able to understand the promise Dean had made to Sam. That's why he had to leave. He would never be out of the business if he stuck around Bobby's. Though it made him feel a little selfish leaving the man to suffer his own grief on his own, Dean knew that he wouldn't be able to offer him what he needed. He was barely managing his own.

When Dean felt his eyes go dry, presumably having run out of tears finally, standing still plastered together with Tony, he realized how pathetic he must seem. He wondered how long he'd been clinging to the other man as he finally began to pull away. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don't already start breakin' Gibbs' rules,” Tony replied, and Dean looked up to see him wiping tears from his own face. It made Dean realize that Tony really did care about Sam. Or maybe that he really cared about Dean. Perhaps both. Or maybe Dean smelled bad, and Tony's eyes were watering...

“Oh yeah,” Dean managed a small smile. “I forgot about those rules.”

“You don't have any reason to apologize, anyway,” Tony told him and looked the younger man over, noting how exhausted he seemed overall. He grabbed Dean's arm, “Come sit down. You look tired,” he said as he guided him to the living room. 

As the two of them entered, they got an idea of how long they must have been standing there in the foyer. Gibbs had opted against the coffee after what had happened, and instead was pouring three glasses halfway with bourbon. Good thing it's not a school night, Tony thought. 

As Gibbs capped the bottle, he met Tony's eyes, then Dean's. “Figured you're probably exhausted from your drive. This might help you get some sleep, instead of us forcing you to stay up.”

“Doesn't take much forcing lately,” Dean gave him a small smile as he sat down on the couch. Tony took the spot on the other end of it while Gibbs sat in the chair across from them. Dean gratefully picked up the glass that was slid in his direction.

“Where'd you drive in from?” Gibbs asked, trying to make some direction into conversation without demanding any information that Dean might not be ready to talk about.

“Lawrence,” he replied. “Kansas,” he added. “About thirteen hours out.”

“You drive straight through?” Gibbs asked as the younger man took a long swig from his glass.

“Stopped to try and get some shut-eye some time in the night,” he told him. “Least I got my eyes off asphalt for a good while.”

“When,” Tony cleared his raspy throat, “When did you start heading this way?”

“Uh,” Dean had to think about that for a moment. Everything had seemed so surreal. “Yesterday,” he concluded. “Just a little bit after...” he didn't need to finish the sentence for them to understand what he meant.

“What happened, Dean?” Gibbs asked, hoping he wasn't pushing him.

Dean met his eyes for a moment, then looked somewhere in the air between them. “It's kind of a long story,” he told him.

“Well, if you're up to it,” Gibbs watched as Dean's eyes met his again, “The way I figure, it's been too damn long since we've talked. Got a hell of a lot of catching up to do. Might as well start somewhere.”

“I'm real sorry we lost touch,” Dean said sincerely. “Things just got so crazy after we left here.”

“Things got crazy here, too,” Tony told him. “Not the same kind of crazy, I'm guessing. But things were a bit...intense. That's for sure.”

“Point is,” Gibbs chimed in, “It wasn't anyone's fault. Took all of us to lose touch.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, and looked back to Dean. “But we're real glad you called today. Just sorry for whatever the story is behind it.”

Dean looked at him with a ghost of a smile on his lips, before downing the rest of his drink, then setting it back down on the coffee table. “The story behind it is gonna require another glass of that stuff,” he said, sliding his glass toward Gibbs.

So, Dean went about telling the long story from the beginning; from the time they'd parted ways. He told them how the demon, Ruby, had been feeding Sam with lies and demon-blood. He told them how he and Sam were destined to be the perfect vessels; he for the archangel, Michael. Sam for Lucifer. He told them how he'd found out that his trip to Hell and the things that happened there caused him to break the very first seal that would start the rest of them going in order to free Lucifer from the cage. How no matter how fast they tried to stop them from breaking, they couldn't be fast enough. How Ruby had brainwashed Sam to the point that he'd left Dean, and was tricked into breaking that final seal. 

Dean told his friends how they'd fought to say no to their vessels; how they'd been bribed, tormented, tortured, blackmailed, and still refused. This, after he told them what saying yes would bring. 

He told them about Sam's insane plan to say yes to Lucifer; how he'd take control and jump into the pit, effectively stopping the plans they'd been forcibly laid down to fate with. He told them how he told Sam he was out of his mind.

He told them how they had to hunt down the Four Horsemen, and how Death actually made a deal with him. But the deal required him to agree to Sam's plan. He told them how Sam got so juiced up with demon-blood in order to attempt to accomplish this, that it actually scared the crap out of him. But that it didn't work; Lucifer had control from the start, and Dean was sure the plan had failed...

“So I went to the big show-down,” Dean told them. “I wasn't about to let Sammy die alone, after all. Cas and Bobby showed up outta no where. Gave me the five minutes I wanted to make one last attempt to reach Sam, by Molotov-ing Michael. Sorry...that's probably not a word,” he paused. “Anyway, Lucifer got pissed. After killing Cas and Bobby, somewhere in between beating the pulp out of me, somehow Sam got control. I don't know how. But he did. And he opened the gate...and he looked at me like he was sayin' goodbye, ya know?” his voice cracked a bit as he momentarily met their eyes. “I was so proud of him... But I was also so...angry, and it was killing me. All I could do was sit there tryin' like hell to stay conscious. Michael showed back up and tried to stop him from jumping. Part of me wanted to stop him, myself. I didn't wanna lose 'im,” he looked down at his lap, trying to remain in control of his emotions. “He just grabbed onto Michael and pulled him down with him. Then he was just...gone.”

The room was silent for a long moment; Tony and Gibbs trying to process all the information Dean had just given them, and Dean trying to reign in the insistent pit in his stomach that kept screaming for him to just start sobbing again.

Once he felt he'd contained himself, he looked up. “Cas came back somehow, by the way. Brought Bobby back.” Then after another long moment, he continued. “Sam saved the world,” he smiled, sadly. 

“You both did,” Gibbs said.

“Yeah,” Dean smirked, looking down at his once-again empty glass. “Saved the world...and lost it too,” he said quietly. But they heard him. And they knew exactly what he meant.

“Hey,” Tony moved a little closer and put a hand on Dean's shoulder, causing Dean to look up at him with exhausted, drooping eyelids. “We may not be much,” he glanced briefly at Gibbs, “But you've got us, ya know?”

Dean gave him an appreciative, yet sad smile, and looked over at Gibbs. “Sam...before he said yes, he made me promise that if it worked, I'd give up hunting; live a normal life. Normal job and all. Made me promise not to try and find a way or make a deal to get him out... Soon as I got in the car I just...I couldn't think of anything. I just drove, ya know?” he glanced at Tony before looking down at his lap. “Couldn't think of anywhere else I'd rather go...”

He started to waver a bit where he sat, and Tony held a bit tighter to his shoulder. “Hey, man. You're wiped out. Let's show you to the guest room, huh?”

“M'kay,” Dean replied, possibly only half aware. As Tony helped him up, he took the glass from him and set it down on the table. “That's some mighty strong bourbon, Gibbs,” Dean commented. “'s got some kick.”

“Supposed to sip this stuff,” Gibbs retorted, judging whether or not he'd need to help Tony in getting Dean up the hall. 

“Just kinda hit me,” he smirked a bit. Tony started leading him away from the living room. “Wait,” Dean stopped them. “The door locked?” he asked.

“Will be,” Gibbs answered.

“Okay,” he resumed his pace toward the room. Once they entered the guest room, Tony turned on the light and walked over to the bed to pull back the covers. But Dean stood in the doorway, allowing a memory to seep into his mind.

The room looked exactly as it had three years ago. He remembered the restless night when Sam was recovering from the poisonous bite he'd received from McGee's god-possessed body. It had been frightening, to say the least, to watch his brother go through that. Dean couldn't help but to imagine what his little brother was enduring right now in the pit...

“Hey,” Tony was suddenly in front of him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied, giving him a slight smile. “Jus' tired. You staying here?”

“Yeah. Gonna crash on the couch tonight. We're not on call this weekend, which is pretty rare. So, we'll do something tomorrow after you're rested up, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks,” he replied, then headed toward the bed.

“G'night, Dean,” Tony said.

“Night, Tony. Thanks again,” he glanced at him before the door was pulled most of the way closed. Dean kicked off his shoes, not even bothering to get any more undressed before climbing into bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chest, turned over and clicked off the light, then curled up on his side. The memory of being there with Sam was fresh in his mind. He missed him. God he missed him...

Dean pulled one of the pillows to his chest and held onto it as his eyes stung with new tears. He silently cried until succumbing to the inevitable, but merciful unconsciousness...


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was a smell he was familiar with. But not something he'd smelled in a long while. Not this particular one. 

Burning flesh, blood, sulfur. And something else. Something that was distinctly...Hell.

Dean opened his eyes. It was dark. Quiet. But slowly the sound faded in, as if someone had gradually turned the volume back up. Screaming. Laughter. But not the kind of laughter you would hear at a friendly poker game. Mostly though, it was the screaming. 

A series of flashes above him revealed rows of chains and hooks...millions of them. And bodies...people, or rather souls, hanging in them; screaming out, though no one they wanted to hear them could. 

Dean scrambled up from where he realized he was lying on the ground, if only to make sure that he wasn't one of them; that he wasn't on one of those hooks. He was wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing the day before...and inevitably the day before that. Other than that, there was nothing wrong with him. He wasn't bloody or battered, and it seemed no one was interested in his sudden appearance there. 

That's when he heard another scream. There was something familiar about it, so he paused and listened again.

“Dean!” the voice cried out. 

Sam...

The screams continued, though he'd only heard his name that one time. Dean followed the voice frantically. “Sam?” he shouted. “Sam, where are you?” That's when he'd almost stumbled, but gained his balance thanks to years of training...or maybe just flat-out luck.

He looked down at the ground where he'd nearly toppled over, and then a bit ahead of it to see the beginning of a large crevice. There was a sort of orange glow emanating from it, and he took a step forward to get a look. Dean realized, as he quickly dropped to his hands and knees to avoid detection, that it was the cage... The actual CAGE. The pit... It was maybe thirty feet deep, and not quite that in diameter around. 

Right now, it was hard to see anything besides smoke and the orange glow. Dean leaned over to try and see past it, his hand taking purchase on the tough iron fencing that sealed the cage from the rest of Hell. He heard quiet weeping and his eyes sought out the origin of the sound. Against the wall, right under where Dean hovered, was a huddled body, recognizable to Dean only because of the clothing he wore. 

“Adam?” Dean said softly but theoretically loud enough for him to hear. But Adam didn't respond. It was likely he hadn't heard him. The poor kid was obviously frightened; doing his best not to draw attention to himself. But he wasn't restrained, and Dean wasn't sure what that meant exactly.

The smoke began to clear and Dean was able to see two other forms. They both seemed to be sleeping; their backs facing him where they lay on what he could only guess were some kind of cots. Some slight movement at the left side of the pit drew Dean's attention. The smoke seemed to clear completely as he looked over. 

Sam...

He was strapped down on a table; the kind of table that Dean was all-too familiar with. One you couldn't find anywhere else. His body was bloody and destroyed where clothing had been stripped away. His flesh was burned in different places. He looked like he was just starting to stir from unconsciousness. 

Dean could taste bile at the back of his throat.

“Sam,” he called out, glancing at the sleeping figures to make sure he hadn't caused them to wake up, before looking back at his brother. “Sammy?” he called again. Sam's eyes opened slowly, and his head began to turn. “Sammy...” he said once more, and Sam's eyes met his. Confusion crossed his face, then fear.

“Dean?” he rasped out. 

“Sam...” came out as a broken whisper. Then, out of nowhere, Sam started hyperventilating. Dean panicked as he watched his brother's body suddenly engulfed in flames...

“Dean!” he screamed...

Dean's eyes flew open to a brightly-lit, familiar bedroom. He was out of breath and his entire body stung from the adrenaline of fear. But he could make no move at the moment to change his vertical position on the bed. Just a dream... Just a dream. Just a nightmare, he thought. 

Sammy's dead... That burning in his chest came back...

*~.~*

Tony woke to the smell of coffee. When he opened his eyes, they fell on a mug sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Oh, right. Gibbs' house. Dean.

He pushed himself up to sit, just as Gibbs wandered in with his own cup. “Sleep well?” Gibbs asked.

“Always sleep better at your place, boss,” Tony half-grinned as he picked up the mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Best short-notice complimentary breakfast you'll get outta me,” he smirked. 

“Is Dean up?” Tony asked after taking a long drink from his cup.

“Heard him go out to get his bag, earlier. Shower's running now.”

Tony nodded and took another sip, watching as Gibbs did the same. “So, you think he'll stay here? I mean, if he does, is that okay with you?” Tony asked. “Because if not, he can come stay with me. That's not a problem at all. And ya know, Allen can probably give him a job at the shop.” 

Allen was someone they'd gotten to know after the Winchesters left Tony and Gibbs to fix Tony's Mustang. Bobby had sent them almost all the parts they'd ended up needing. But work ended up getting in the way so often, they needed an extra hand. Allen was an uncle of a fellow agent at NCIS who had heard about Tony's car troubles and recommended him. It turned out the man was pretty decent.

“'Course he can stay here, DiNozzo,” Gibbs replied. “But that's up to him. And getting him a job at the shop's not a half-bad idea.”

“Well, he can get it himself. Just use us for references and he should be good to go. He knows what he's doing.” His face suddenly dropped with a feeling of guilt.

“What?” Gibbs questions, narrowing his brows.

“I just remembered, I never sent him a picture of the finished car,” Tony said sullenly. “How could I have forgotten that?” he met Gibbs' eyes incredulously. “God...it's all my fault that we lost contact.”

“In case you forgot,” Gibbs began, “A lot happened between then and the car being fixed. Right after they left, we were dealing with Rivkin.”

Tony became thoughtful for a long moment. “Right... Ziva and all that...stuff. Guess it was kind of distracting.”

“And by the time it was finished, I was busy getting my mother-in-law to confess to murder,” he continued. “So, we all had our hands full.”

“That's right,” Dean's voice sounded from the entrance to the room, and they looked over. “Like you said last night, takes all of us to lose touch.” 

“Fair enough,” Tony gave a lopsided grin. “Good morning, by the way. Want some breakfast? I can run out...”

“Coffee's fine, actually,” Dean replied, starting toward the kitchen. “You mind if I grab a cup, Gibbs?”

“I can get it for you,” Gibbs offered.

“Nah, it's fine. I know my way around the kitchen,” Dean smirked.

“Almost forgot,” Gibbs let out a small laugh.

“And then I'd like to see the car, Tony, if you've got her with you,” he said a bit louder, from the kitchen.

“Yeah. No problem. Lemme just get my shoes on...”

*~.~*

“Can't believe I didn't recognize her when I pulled up,” Dean said as they stood at the curb in front of Gibbs' house.

“It was dark, and you'd been on the road for a long time,” Tony defended. “Plus, last time you saw her she was a pile of scrap, just about,” he smirked.

“Well, she looks great now,” he commented before taking a sip from his mug. “You said Allen was the name of the dude that helped you out?”

“Yeah. Great guy. When it got so busy at work, he really took over the majority of putting on all those parts Bobby sent out in the beginning.”

“What was that I heard about Ziva?” Dean asked. “You and Gibbs were talking about someone named Rivkin?”

“Long story,” Tony shook his head, “But I guess if you wanna know, it's only fair. Wanna go for a ride? I can tell you in the car.”

“Okay,” Dean agreed, and they got in. Dean watched as Tony made sure his belt was on before he even shut the door, and Tony caught him watching.

He gave him a sheepish grin, “Still can't break the habit, since.”

“Don't really blame you,” Dean replied.

They drove a bit through the neighborhood as Tony told him about Ziva's personal involvement with Michael Rivkin; the way she'd kept it a secret from her team, and how he'd had to confront him, was attacked, and ended up killing Rivkin in order to save himself. 

He told him about how she'd decided to stay in Tel Aviv with her father, and ultimately the Mossad, after they'd all gone there to defend Tony for the death of one of their officers. How she'd told Gibbs to choose between the two of them, and when he refused, she'd abandoned them. 

Then he told him how her own father sent her on a suicide mission, in which the three of them had to go an rescue her, and how she's really never been the same since. Something happened to her there that broke her in some way, and she refused to talk about it. And there was really no way to even try and convince her to. 

“Sounds like that's what's made her seem so different,” Dean said. “Holding all that stuff in, it's pretty tough. Makes you put up extra defenses so it doesn't show.” He got a thoughtful expression on his face as he looked absently at the dashboard. “That's what Sam would say, anyway,” he said a bit quieter.

Tony glanced briefly at him, then back to the road, trying to think of something to say to that. “Sam was pretty smart about that kinda stuff,” he decided on.

“He was pretty smart about a lot of things,” Dean replied, then looked down at his lap. 

Well, damn..., Tony thought. This isn't going as I'd hoped. As the car headed back toward the house, it was silent for a while. He wanted to defuse the situation without possibly risking making it worse. But he was at a bit of a loss. 

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out without really knowing what else to say.

Dean's face shot up to look at him. “For what?”

“For making you sad,” he said. “For making you think about it again.”

Dean let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he looked out the windshield. “You assume I ever stopped. Thinking about it, I mean.”

“No...I mean, I didn't...I-” he stumbled over his own words, feeling a bit like McGee. “I'm just sorry.”

“Wasn't there some rule?” Dean half-smiled in his direction. 

“I just wish it could be different,” Tony continued. “I wish I could fix everything for you; make it all...I dunno. I wish Cas could've done something.” Dean compulsively swallowed, not looking at anything in particular as Tony spoke. “I wish you and Sam didn't have to sacrifice so much; sacrifice yourselves. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair,” his voice cracked, and Dean looked over at him. “Sorry. I know I have no right...”

“Dude, shut up.” It was Tony's turn to look over at him. “You have a right to miss him too.” After a moment, Dean looked back out the window, and Tony to the road. “I dunno what hurts more,” Dean said quietly. “The fact that he's not here, or the fact that he's in that pit...enduring the worst possible tortures imaginable.” There was a short pause before he continued. “Guess it's just a different hurt. First one's selfish. The second one... Yeah, that's worse. That's definitely worse...”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean had taken a drive in the Impala after they'd gotten back to the house. He'd said he'd needed to make a run to the store. When he came back, he was hauling in another back-pack and a grocery bag, and Tony had just gotten dressed after a shower.

Gibbs had come up from the basement after hearing the familiar rumble of the young man's car pull up out front. Dean shut and locked the door once he was inside, and turned to meet Gibbs' eyes. “Hey,” he gave him a small smile and reached into the bag. “Thought I'd contribute a bit since I'll be here...I mean, if it's okay that I'm here.”

“Always been okay,” Gibbs assured. Dean pulled a large tin of coffee grounds from the bag and tossed it to Gibbs, who let out a small laugh. “Might get us through the week,” he said, and headed into the kitchen with it.

Tony came down the staircase with his cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, Abs, I'm not home. You should've called before heading over there.” There was a pause, and Dean could hear her voice from the ten feet away he was standing. He couldn't help the small smile, remembering her from before. “I'm at Gibbs' place,” Tony told her, then looked questioningly at Dean for permission to tell her why. Dean gave a small shrug. “Dean is here.” Another pause. “Winchester,” he explained further.

“What?!” Tony held the phone away from his ear and grimaced. “I'm coming over.”

Tony looked to Dean again, who seemed apprehensive but shrugged anyway. Tony held eye contact with the younger man as he talked to Abby, “Okay. But I need to talk to you when you get here before you come in. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”

A grateful look relaxed Dean's features, and Tony knew he'd guessed right. Dean didn't want to have to retell the story...

*~.~*

Dean refilled his flask in the guest bathroom, and took a long swig from the bottle before capping it up again. Abby was outside with Tony, and he was telling her what Dean had told them last night. He didn't know how long that would take. But as he glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed, he sighed at the fact that it wasn't even ten in the morning yet. 

He stuffed the rest of the bottle of whiskey into his backpack and stuck the flask in the night stand, before heading out of the room and shutting the door behind him. As luck would have it, Abby and Tony were heading inside. And surprisingly, Gibbs as well. Dean hadn't realized the other man had gone out there with them. Maybe it was at some point while he was in his room.

When he could see Abby, her face was streaked with mascara-tears that she'd tried unsuccessfully to wipe away. She met his eyes, and he smiled at her, to which she did her best to smile back.

“Hey, Abby,” he said, and took a few steps toward her.

“Hey, Dean,” she replied in a raspy voice, before running to him and throwing her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Oof!” he grunted, but quickly recovered and hugged her right back. “Missed you,” he told her as well as his restricted lung-capacity would allow. And then he felt her shaking with silent sobs. He held her tighter. “Now don't start that,” he told her. “You'll get me going again.”

“Sorry,” she pulled away, desperately trying to pull herself together, sniffling and wiping the tears from her face. “I'm really glad you came back,” she told him, rapidly blinking to hold back further tears.

A tear escaped her eye stubbornly, and Dean reached up and wiped it away with his thumb, cupping her cheeks with both hands and pulling her in to kiss her forehead. “Thanks for taking me back,” he hugged her again, and looked to the two men standing behind her, making sure that they knew that that statement was directed at all of them.

*~.~*

McGee pulled up to Gibbs' house at about the same time as Ziva and Ducky, parking behind Abby's red Mini-cooper. They'd all been called to the house for a meeting, which really had rarely ever happened before. So it was a bit strange, and by the looks on his co-workers' faces as they exited their vehicles, they all felt the same way.

They met on the walk up to the house and chatted as they headed toward the door. “What do you think this is about?” Ziva asked.

“No idea,” Ducky replied. “But it must be important for him to have called us all here.”

“Tony's late,” McGee commented upon not seeing his car.

“He's not late,” Gibbs said as he opened the door. “He doesn't need to be here for this.”

“Is this about Tony?” Ziva asked. “Is he in trouble?”

“No,” Gibbs replied, then moved away so they could enter. 

McGee noticed Abby roaming restlessly in the kitchen, preparing coffee for everyone. Restless Abby meant something was weighing on her mind. “Everything okay with Abby?” he questioned, glancing back at Gibbs.

“Sit,” he told them. The three of them simultaneously took a seat on the couch and looked expectantly at Gibbs. He seemed a bit reluctant with whatever he had to say as he took a seat in the chair across from them. “I've asked you all here because there's news. But it doesn't have anything to do with work. It's personal.”

“You are not ill, are you, Gibbs?” Ziva interjected.

“Ziva, let me talk,” he shook his head. “I'm sure you all remember when Tony's father passed,” he began. “The events that followed and the people that helped us.” He waited, and they nodded. “Dean Winchester called. He's gonna be staying here for a while.” The three of them looked thoughtful for a moment, then looked a bit apprehensive, wondering why he'd be there. “There's no easy way to say this,” he sighed. “Sam is dead.”

They all reacted a bit differently to this news. Ducky closed his eyes and ducked his head a bit. Ziva looked as though she'd taken a punch to the gut and was trying to tough through the pain by straightening up. McGee hunched over a bit, almost imperceptibly, and stared somewhere on the floor beneath him. 

But then he looked up at Gibbs, again. “But what about Cas?” he asked.

“He couldn't do anything about it,” Gibbs explained. And then he explained why; he explained everything. By the end of it, the three of them had tears glistening in their eyes. Gibbs had to look away, down at the coffee table. “Anyway, Sam made Dean promise to quit hunting and try and live a normal life,” he told them further. “So he decided to come here. I expect it's because we mean as much to him as they...as he means to us. I wanted to tell you so he didn't have to do it again.”

A spoon dropped in the kitchen, and they looked over as Abby crouched down to pick it up. But she stayed there a bit longer than necessary. McGee got up and went to her, seeing her small frame quake with silent tears, and once she saw him, she launched herself into his arms and cried. 

“Where is he now?” Ziva asked, drawing Gibbs' attention back to her.

“With Tony, grabbing a few things from his apartment. Then they're heading over to the garage to see if there's a position open.”

“Going to work so soon?” Ducky queried. “Don't you think he should take a few weeks to properly grieve?” 

“Can't tell him how to do that, Duck,” Gibbs replied. 

“The poor lad,” Ducky continued, “Losing someone who was not only a younger sibling, but his dearest friend. I can't imagine the devastation...”

“Excuse me,” Ziva said quietly, and stood abruptly from the couch to head outside. Gibbs watched her with narrowed eyes for a moment.

“If Dean's getting a job,” McGee said from the kitchen, “He's gonna need a strong alibi. One that no one can break.”

“An undercover cover,” Abby said, sniffling as McGee helped her to stand. “We can do that; McGee and I.”

“Yeah. We can create a whole new past for him,” McGee said. “Job references and everything. Bobby's got a dozen different phone numbers.”

“And Dean has a lot of skills, so it's not like he'd be taking on a job without having the experience,” Abby added, then looked to McGee. “We should probably get started right away, don't you think?”

“I think maybe I should talk to Vance,” Gibbs told them. “Let him know what's going on, and have his backing on this. It'll be more solid that way.”

“You're right, Jethro,” Ducky told him. “The Director was involved enough to know that Dean has been wrongfully accused by the agencies that have warrants out for him. I'm most certain he'll not have a problem returning the favor, especially to one of the men that just recently saved the world...”

*~.~*

“So you think you'd like working with Allen?” Tony asked Dean as they pulled onto Gibbs' street.

“Seems like a nice enough guy,” he replied. “Gotta be honest, though...I might not be of very much use, at least for a couple of days.”

“No one expects you to start even that soon, Dean,” Tony glanced at him. 

“Well, I need to be doin' something. Can't sit around doin' nothin' all day but thinkin'.”

“Yeah. I can relate to that.”

“I swear, if Allen scratches my baby-”

“He's not gonna scratch her,” Tony let out a small laugh. “It's just an oil change, and we'll pick her up in the morning.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just...normally don't let anyone touch her. But she's been on the road way past time, and I gotta make sure she's taken care of. Just can't even think about doin' it myself right now.” And that was a lot for Dean to admit. He loved his baby, but he loved his brother more, and it hurt too much to even think about catering to the former. Even if it was all he had left.

“Looks like the gang is all here,” Tony said as he spotted the cars out front. “You up for that? Or you wanna go for another spin around the block? Maybe catch a beer or two?”

“I'm fine,” he told him. “Wouldn't mind seein' everyone, actually. Least for a little while.”

“Okay,” Tony said as he pulled the car up behind McGee's. That's when they both spotted Ziva. She stood from where she'd been sitting on the porch, and looked as though she wanted to make her way toward them, but was hesitant. 

Dean exited the car right after Tony, and headed toward her. He remembered a late night three years ago, when the girls had come down in their pajamas; how Sam hadn't been able to take his eyes off of the Israeli, even though he denied it. 

“Dean,” she did her best to smile when he stopped just a foot in front of her. “It is so good to see you.”

“You too, Ziva,” he replied. He watched as Tony quietly passed them and went into the house. 

“I am...sorry about Sam,” her voice shook, and she fidgeted as she attempted to hold her emotions in check. At least for Dean. She knew this was hard on him, and it wasn't his responsibility to comfort her in all of this. But then Dean took a small step forward and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and looked into her eyes.

“Sammy...he really liked you,” he said in barely a whisper. And Ziva lost all control, pulling him into an embrace that he was all too willing to return.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of hellish means of torture. Nothing graphically portrayed. But thought I should put this warning, just in case.

Dean excused himself from the discussion that had been taking place around the table. He appreciated the effort that they were all willing to put in, to give him a new identity and keep him under the radar. He was grateful that they all cared about him as much as they did. And there was a long strand of time, maybe an hour or so, where he'd even forgotten why he was so sad. It had gotten him thinking about it, and when he'd remembered, that pain in his chest flared up and he'd needed to leave for at least a few minutes.

But he'd played it cool, not wanting to give away why he was walking away from them for a moment. Once he made it to his room, he closed the door as much as he could without closing it entirely, which would have given away that he was shutting himself up in there. He went to the far side of the bed and sat on the edge of it, sliding open the night-stand drawer and fetching his flask. 

How could I have forgotten? He thought. Even for just a little while, how could I forget that he's gone? I don't deserve to be happy. Not while he's down there being torn up...burned...God knows what else. Or does He?

“You okay?” Tony's voice pulled him from his thoughts. 

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He took another long swig from the now half-empty flask before putting the cap back on. 

“It's not even dinner time,” he commented, referring to the fact that Dean was drinking, and made his way toward the bed. “Kinda early for that, isn't it? Have you even eaten today?”

“'m not hungry,” he replied. “And it's never too early for whiskey.” He didn't look over when he felt the bed dip beside him. 

“What's goin' on?” he asked softly. “If it's too much, having everyone here, I can tell them you're tired and wanna crash.”

“'s not really them,” Dean replied, then bit his lower lip and shut his eyes for a moment. “It was nice...ya know, not thinking about it for a while,” he admitted. “But I can't help thinkin', do I deserve that?” he looked over at Tony for a moment. 

Tony narrowed his eyes, “Deserve what?”

“I dunno,” Dean looked back down at the flask in his hands. “Does Sammy deserve me not thinkin' about him? With what I know he's goin' through, down there? Should I stop, even for a moment, trying to figure out how to save him?” he looked back at Tony, eyes red-rimmed.

“Is there a way?” Tony questioned, keeping his eyes locked on Dean's.

“I don't know,” Dean said almost in a whisper.

“If Cas couldn't save him, then how can anyone else?” Tony hadn't meant it to sound like a lost cause.

Dean's eyes shifted, darting around somewhere in the air between them, a look of stifled anguish trying to force its way through. “So I'm just supposed to let him be?” his voice shook.

“I don't know, Dean. I don't have the answers. I wish I did. I wish I could help...”

“I know that,” Dean met his eyes again before looking back down at the flask. “Sam told me not to look,” he told him, unscrewing the cap once again. “He told me not to go lookin' for deals, or try an' get him out.” He took a long swig, then loosely capped it again. “But how am I supposed to just sit here and not wanna do everything in my power to end his suffering?”

Tony took the flask from Dean, after a few silent moments of not knowing how to respond. Dean's eyes followed his movements, ready to take the whiskey back, but realized that other man was taking a drink, himself. Once he got the cap back on, he handed it back to Dean. 

“All I can say...all I really know, knowing Sam for the short amount of time I was privileged to, is that there's no way he wanted you up here suffering too.” Dean noticed the flask was now empty, and reached into his bag for the bottle. Tony continued, “Sam did what he did to save us all. To save you, Dean.” He watched the hunter stand and walk toward the bathroom to refill his flask. “I get that you're devastated, and it's okay to be. It's okay to be sad about this; to miss him like nothing else in the world. But he wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your days in torment because you couldn't find a way to get him out.”

Dean reentered the room, a look of slight anger on his face, “Well I'm keeping the promises that I can. I'm doin' my damnedest to. I've given up the only thing I know, and I'm still here...” he took a long drink from the bottle before capping it up, tossing the near-empty container back into his bag, and pulling his refilled flask from his pocket. “I'm still alive,” he continued. “And I've never...never wanted to just end it before,” he met Tony's eyes. “So excuse me, but it's not about what Sam wants,” his eyes shifted a bit. “I'll keep the promises that I can. But I ain't givin' up on him, Tony. I can't. I just...I can't.”

Tony looked up at him from where he sat on the bed, feeling helpless. Dean wanted to die? Maybe that shouldn't be as surprising as it was, knowing how much Sam meant to him. But hearing it out loud kinda scared him. Perhaps he hadn't even realized just how much he cared about Dean until that moment when his heart constricted at the confession. And he wasn't going to let Sam down; he'd make sure that Dean was going to be okay, no matter what it took.

“Okay,” Tony said, after a few long moments, and he stood from the edge of the bed. “Okay, Dean.” Dean looked at him; brows knitting together, half in confusion. Tony took his arm, and Dean's eyes followed his movements. “Then I'll help you,” he told him, taking the flask and placing it in the drawer, without letting go of Dean's arm. 

Dean watched, not really understanding why he continued to allow Tony to hold onto his arm, as he pulled the blanket and sheets down on the bed. Then he allowed Tony to move him to it and sit him down on the edge. He watched in silence as Tony then pulled Dean's boots off, one at a time, and set them off to the side.

He looked away for a moment, remembering the last time Sam had done the same; when Dean had had a bit too much to drink and was rambling on about something, and Sam would just listen and let him talk until he'd gotten him tucked in. Dean had always pretended to forget those nights. And here was Tony, doing the same, and Dean suddenly realized... When the hell did I get so damn drunk? As Tony pulled the covers up over him, Dean grabbed onto his arm and made him meet his eyes, “Why?”

Tony cocked his head a bit. “You need to sleep,” he replied.

“I mean why...why do you wanna help?”

Tony furrowed his brows, “Two heads are better than one, right?” He watched as Dean seemed to think that over. “I'm not gonna let you do it alone,” he added softly. “You're not alone, here. We're gonna do everything we can to help.”

Dean looked at him with grateful eyes and slowly released his grip on Tony's arm, allowing himself to sink back into the pillow. 

“Get some sleep,” Tony told him as Dean rolled onto his side, and he pulled the covers up a bit more. “We'll get a fresh start in the morning.” With that, Tony quietly left the room, pulling the door almost all the way closed. 

When he entered the kitchen, only Gibbs was left at the table, presumably waiting for Tony as he looked up and met his eyes. “They left,” he told him. “Figured Dean needed some rest.”

“Yeah. He does,” Tony plopped down in an empty chair across from him and sighed. Gibbs noted the far-away, worried look on his agent's face.

*~.~*

Dean's first sensory awareness was the smell of Hell again. Then the screams. He opened his eyes and immediately sought out the orange glow of the pit, and started making his way toward it. He could already hear Sam's screams distinctively amongst all the others. 

He dropped and crawled to the precipice upon hearing the tell-tale voices of Lucifer and Michael. Part of him was glad that it wasn't Sam's, but its previous vessel's. But bile rose in his throat when he realized that Michael's form was that of his father, as his younger self. He knew it wasn't really his dad, but a figment possibly meant to further torment his brother.

“Adam,” Lucifer called out. “Come.”

Dean watched as the youngest Winchester scrambled, albeit hesitantly, to his feet and toward Lucifer. 

“Leave him be,” Michael protested.

“I don't think I will,” he replied, not paying any mind to his brother. “Adam,” he looked back to the young man, “I want you to fuck your brother, just like he fucked you by getting you stuck down here,” he said with a wicked grin.

“What? No!” Adam cried out, backing away. Dean's heart was pounding in his chest; eyes darting back and forth between the angels and his brothers, glad that Sam wasn't conscious at the moment to hear this debate. 

“Come on, Adam,” Lucifer goaded, “You can't tell me you're not pissed about what he did, grabbing onto you and pulling you down here with us to suffer for all eternity. Tell me you don't want a little revenge.”

“It wasn't his fault,” Adam defended. “I shouldn't have said yes. I'm as much to blame for all of us being here...”

Lucifer stared at the younger man for an excruciating amount of time, but Adam remained silent. Dean was grateful that there was some Winchester-spirit in his youngest brother. 

“Fine,” Lucifer finally spoke. “Then I'll do it.” He turned to Sam's motionless body, and Dean was suddenly in a wave of helpless panic.

“No!” Adam bravely yelled. “Leave him alone! Haven't you done enough?”

“I will never have done enough,” he replied casually. “Wakey, wakey, Sammy boy,” he cooed. “It's time to play.”

“Nonononono,” Dean murmured, trying to come up with some way to stop this. 

Sam stirred on the 'bed', opening his eyes, and immediately set his jaw for the expected onslaught of torture. Lucifer reached out, touching Sam's leg, and suddenly his clothes were gone. The panic that flooded the previously stubborn expression on Sam's face, made Dean's stomach drop. Suddenly he was struggling on that bed, trying to somehow shield himself.

“Aw, now, Sammy,” Lucifer cocked his head. “Don't fight it. This is the only action you're gonna see down here. Might as well at least try and enjoy it.” And then Lucifer's clothes were gone as he moved forward toward Sam's panicked body.

“No!” Dean yelled out. No one heard him. Except for Sam. 

His eyes were suddenly on Dean, looking lost and ashamed; tears making their way down his face in fear. Sam let out a breath, accompanied by a sob he was unable to hold back. His eyes pleaded for Dean to help him, but he said nothing of the sort. “Don't,” he said, looking at his older brother. “Don't look...” Dean's face pinched in anguish as he held contact with Sam's eyes. “Please...please,” Sam begged. Dean squeezed his eyes closed, and he rolled over onto his side facing away from the pit. 

Then the pained noises began, turning swiftly into screams. 

Dean covered his ears, squeezing his eyes closed tighter. But he could still hear them as though he'd not been covering his ears at all. Every sound...every single sound coming from that pit tore Dean's heart open a little more.

He couldn't stop the tears as they escaped and cascaded across his face and to the ground where he lay. He didn't want to...

Dean awoke to a dark room. The smell of Hell was gone and replaced with the lingering aroma of old coffee and something distinct to that house. Wood-shavings and just a hint of bourbon. It pulled him into the reality of where he was. But it didn't make him forget a moment of that dream.

Nausea forced him to roll out of bed and run to the bathroom where he promptly emptied whatever bile content he had in his stomach into the toilet. As he knelt there waiting for the heaving to stop, he wondered why his dreams were so vivid; why he was so messed up to imagine these things happening. It was like he'd been cursed to suffer right along with his brother... 

Part of him was suddenly and oddly comforted by that. If his brother was suffering, then at least he could, too. He just wished there was a way to switch places with him; take all of this away from Sam, and make all of his suffering end...


	6. Chapter 6

It was somewhere around nine in the evening. Tony was in the basement chatting with Gibbs about random things while the older man worked on his latest project. “You don't mind me stayin' here, do ya, boss?” Tony asked. “I mean, I don't think I ever really asked.”

“Don't need to ask, DiNozzo,” Gibbs replied. “And I know you wanna be here for Dean.”

“I do. I just...” he looked down for a moment. “There's really not a whole lot I can do for him.”

Gibbs looked as him with slightly narrowed eyes. “You're doing what you can. You're being his friend.”

“Guess I wish I had some kinda supernatural powers, ya know?” he smirked, looking over at his boss. “Wish I could get Sam back for him.”

“Can't always work that way.” Gibbs put down the chisel and leaned his hip against the workbench. “People die all the time. Not many of them get brought back.”

“Well those people weren't fighting against bonafide forces of evil, for the greater good. And it's not like Sam and Dean are just some peons in a giant army. It was just them. Sam and Dean against the world. And they kept getting brought back, as long as it suited the powers-that-be. Now? Now nothing.” He swiped a hand down his face. “Well, what about Dean? Why don't they care about what this is doing to Dean?”

Gibbs' brows knit slightly together, considering Tony's postulate of the situation. He wanted to have a reply, but could only shake his head, disappointed that he couldn't set his mind at some ease. 

They were both pulled from their thoughts when they heard the muffled sound of the upstairs toilet flushing. They listened, waiting to hear the creaking of the bed that would indicate Dean's return to sleep. But instead, they heard rustling in the kitchen; the fridge door opening and a clink of bottles, before it closed again. It wasn't until they heard the back door open and close that Tony decided to make his way up.

He silently made his way out the back door, finding Dean sitting at the very edge of one of the patio chairs, a beer in his hands, and his face looking upward at the wide expanse of night sky. He thought he heard him say, “Castiel.” But he couldn't be sure.

“Hey,” Tony said, and Dean jumped. It occurred to Tony that he couldn't recall ever seeing Dean actually startle before. Dean's head immediately ducked down, seeming almost disappointed. “Can't sleep anymore?” He made his way over cautiously. Dean mutely shook his head without looking over. “If- if you wanna be left alone-”

“No, it's okay,” Dean said. “Not like he's even listening, anyway.”

Tony kept his eyes on the younger man, as he sank down in the next chair. “You were trying to talk to Cas,” he surmised. 

Dean was silent for a few moments. “Yeah, well he's busy. War in Heaven and all.”

“What...” Tony wasn't sure how to finish the question without sounding rude. But Dean seemed to understand.

“I dunno,” he replied. “I want him to help Sam. I mean, why can't he?” he looked over at Tony. “And if he can't...well, I dunno what I want from him. I wanna sleep. But I don't, really...don't want to. I don't wanna feel like this, but I don't know that I wanna be...happy. Does that make sense?”

“Sure.”

“Because I'm not. I'm not happy. Not with Sam gone, and especially not with what he's goin' through. Even though it's killin' me thinkin' about it, I don't think I can ask anyone to make it go away,” his gaze drifted elsewhere. “Sam doesn't deserve to be forgotten. He sure as hell doesn't deserve for me to stop feeling miserable about all of this. I don't care what he wanted for me,” he looked back down to his beer before taking a long swig from it. 

Tony swallowed against the lump in his throat. He understood how Dean felt. Couldn't explain why, but he just did. He knew. He knew Dean wanted to get Sam back, and that that was the only thing that would ever make him 'okay' again. Tony wanted that too.

“What do we need to do?” Tony asked, several long minutes later. Dean looked over at him in question. “To get him back,” he elaborated. “What do we need to look for?”

Something in the expression on Dean's face made Tony unsure of how he took what he'd said. But in reality, Dean was overcome with a level of gratefulness that he was unable to comprehend how to express. The fact that Tony not only didn't want to fight him on the matter, but actually wanted to help him, gave him something he hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.

Hope.

*~.~*

In the back yard of Gibbs' house, watching the two young men on the patio as he was masked from their vision, Castiel stood in silence. He'd heard Dean's call, but was hesitant to respond. Things in Heaven were chaotic. And though he should have stayed, he had to admit that it was a bit of a relief to leave, even for just a little while. 

Cas was a bit confused, at first, as to why Dean had chosen to come to Gibbs as opposed to Lisa. But after some thought and the interaction he witnessed between Dean and Tony, the reasoning seemed clear. 

Seeing that Dean was in good hands, Castiel concluded that he was no longer needed, and left them...


	7. Chapter 7

Almost a year. Almost an entire freaking year, they'd looked. Just about six weeks shy, actually. But nothing they found or tried seemed to do a damned thing.

Dean was working at the garage more hours than he should've been able to handle. But the more hours he put in, the less he had to think about the fact that he was failing. Failing to save Sammy. 

Tony had been doing everything possible to assist him. He'd read more books in the past several months than he probably had in his entire stint in boarding school. He'd gotten Abby and McGee to locate some pretty far-fetched items and have them shipped to a P.O box, just to be safe. Anything that Dean needed, Tony did his best to provide. 

But every time the plans hadn't come through the way they'd wanted, he felt worse. Nothing short of a magic wand was going to bring Sam back. Hope was running dangerously thin. And the fact that work had ramped up in the past couple of months to the point that none of the team at NCIS had much time to indulge in these extracurricular activities, made him feel like he was letting Dean down even more. 

It had been another late night at the office, after an excruciatingly long case. Tony hadn't been staying at Gibbs' house every night anymore. But he did decide to hitch a ride and spend this night there. He felt bad, not having seen much of Dean in the past week. And as they came trudging into the house at close to midnight, the smell of whiskey hit them like a wave. Every light in the house was out, except for the one in the kitchen. That's where Tony and Gibbs silently headed.

Beside the counter, Dean was crouched down on the floor cursing under his breath as he tried to soak up the liquid that had spilled when he accidentally knocked the bottle off of the counter and sent it crashing to the floor. He was surrounded by broken glass and discarded paper towels.

“Hey,” Tony made his presence known, and again, Dean jumped, or rather jolted; his hand slipping on the wet floor and catching a large piece of glass, which in turn sliced open the side of his hand.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean said through clenched teeth. Of course, Tony was already moving toward him to help, and Gibbs was circling around the other side of him ready to pull Dean up and away from the mess. “I'm fine,” he told them. “I got this.”

“You're bleeding all over the floor,” Tony retorted. 

“I'll take care of the mess,” Gibbs said. “Go with Tony to the bathroom and let him patch you up.”

Dean wanted to refuse. But an order from Gibbs felt like an order from Dean's father. He didn't feel there was a choice. So he allowed Tony to help him up as he absentmindedly held onto the wrist of the injured hand. Tony handed him a towel to press against it before leading him out of the kitchen.

“I don't need help,” Dean said gruffly but quietly, so that Tony was the only one to hear it.

“You've got one hand, Dean,” Tony retorted. “I know you've had worse, but for god's sake just let me help you,” he said sternly as they reached the bathroom. Tony flicked on the light, and Dean remained silent as he was pushed toward the sink. Tony closed the toilet lid and pushed him to sit down on it, then opened the cabinet under the sink to retrieve the first aid kit.

“You're back kinda late,” Dean said after a few moments.

“Yeah,” Tony sighed. “Long case. Finally done.” He found the kit and closed the cabinet. “You look like crap, Dean. Did you get any sleep?”

Dean scoffed a small laugh, “'bout as much as I normally do.”

“I'm honestly surprised you're vertical, like ever,” Tony replied as he cleaned the gash on Dean's hand. “I don't think you've gotten more than a few hours sleep every night since you've been here. Even with all the damned drinking.”

“The damned drinking gets me what I get now,” Dean retorted. “More I drink, the better I sleep. It's when it starts to wear off that there's a problem.”

“Maybe you need a different method of sleep aid. A prescription, maybe.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, stifling a grunt against the pain when Tony wiped over the wound. “I need to be more than sleeping. The whiskey delays the nightmares.” 

Tony glanced up at his face for a moment before concentrating back on his hand. “Still getting those, huh?”

“They never stopped,” Dean told him quietly. He pulled his flask from his pocket with his good hand. That's what he'd been refilling before knocking over the bottle. He expertly unscrewed the cap with just his thumb and finger, and took a long drink from it. 

“Ya know,” Tony said as he secured the final butterfly strip, “You never said what the nightmares are about.”

“You're right. I didn't,” Dean said, then took another long drink.

“Well, you don't have to. Just thought maybe it'd help to tell someone.”

Dean looked away a bit, nodding, then stood and made his way out of the bathroom.

“Dean-”

“Just gonna see if Gibbs needs any help with the mess,” Dean told him.

“It's done,” Gibbs said, appearing in the doorway of the bedroom. Dean looked at him, his chest broadening as he acknowledged the words, slightly disappointed that his plan for avoidance had failed. Defeated, he turned and sat down on the foot of the bed, taking another drink from his flask.

Tony assessed the younger man for a few moments, before looking over at Gibbs. When he spoke, however, it was to Dean. “If you want us to leave you alone, then we will,” he said, then started toward the door, even though Gibbs seemed to be staying put. 

“It's Hell,” Dean said a bit quiet, but the others heard him. Tony paused in his steps and turned to look at him. Dean was looking nervously down at his flask, unsure about whether or not he should, or could continue. It wasn't his way; talking about this sort of thing. But he couldn't keep it in anymore. “My nightmares,” he continued. “Every time I dream. It's about Hell.” His friends stood silently by the door, afraid to move and chance that Dean would change his mind and clam up. “I wake up in Hell, and I find Sam,” he told them without looking up. “But I can never get to him. There's a...cage across the top of the pit. And of everywhere I've been in the actual Hell, I've never seen the pit. But since Sam's been gone, it's all I ever see in my dreams.”

Tony chanced moving a bit closer toward the bed, thinking maybe that was all Dean was going to tell them.

“He's trapped in there,” his voice shook as he spoke. “Sam and Adam...with Lucifer and Michael. And they try to get Adam to do things to Sammy. But he refuses. He refused for damn-near six months, and then Lucifer decided that he didn't care that Michael wanted to protect his innocent vessel anymore. If he wouldn't hurt Sam, then he'd get hurt instead. It only took one,” Dean held up a finger, not looking entirely up at his friends, “One beating, and Adam gave in. Not that I could blame him. Sam would've been tortured anyway. And the way he was screaming for them to stop hurting Adam...” he looked back down at his flask.  
“I know they're just nightmares,” Dean said, then took another long drink, effectively emptying his flask, “But they never stop. Watching Sam get torn apart, night after night, over and over...sick and twisted things... I...” He swallowed. “I don't know why it won't stop; why I can't get this stuff outta my head. And every minute I'm not asleep I can still hear his screams echoing in my head.” He looked up at Tony and Gibbs who stood in front of him now, and they saw the tears on his face before he swiped them away. Tony moved to sit down beside him. “I just wanna sleep,” he told them. “I need to. Feel like I'm losin' my mind...”  
He felt Tony's hand on his shoulder and allowed himself, for just a moment, to accept the comfort. But then he pushed up off of the bed and made to head toward the door. “I need another drink.” Gibbs stopped him by grabbing his arm. Dean tried to pull free. “Lemme go, Gibbs.”

“You've had enough, Dean,” Gibbs replied. 

“I need it to sleep!” he argued, tugging against Gibbs' hold on his arm.

But Gibbs held tight and pulled him, grabbing his other arm closer. “Hasn't helped so far.”

“Please...just...” Dean was losing his will to fight, “I can't...” Gibbs held onto him; Dean's side pressed up against him as the younger man's knees started to give out. “Please...” he trembled before completely crumbling in the older man's arms. 

Gibbs slowly sank down to the floor, securely holding onto Dean through his sobbing, and he looked up at Tony who seemed both lost and sympathetic to the point that he, himself, was near tears. But Gibbs focused back on the man he was trying to comfort, and placed one of his hands on Dean's head, pulling it to his chest. “You're gonna be okay,” he told him softly. “It's gonna be okay...”

And just like that, Dean's strength suddenly came back to him, perhaps in a burst of anger. “No...no it's not. Not like this,” he pushed himself away from Gibbs, and up on his feet. Before either of the other men knew what was happening, Dean was out the door. 

Tony was the first to find him outside in the back yard, standing in the grass and looking up to the sky, shouting. 

“Cas! Godamnit, Cas, get down here! You need to fix this!”

“Dean,” Tony reached his side, “People are sleeping, man. Besides, you said he couldn't do anything...”

“I don't care!” he shouted. “He has to be able to do something,” he looked back up. “Castiel!”

“Dean.” The voice in front of him wasn't Gibbs or Tony. Dean's gaze dropped to it's location. Suddenly he didn't know what to say as the angel he hadn't seen since that night stood before him looking disheveled and worn. “I need your help,” the angel told him. All three men looked confused at Castiel's words. “I have made...a grave error...”


	8. Chapter 8

“What're you talkin' about, Cas,” Dean asked, his voice coming out raspy.

“We should go inside, and I'll explain,” the angel answered. 

As they walked, Dean kept his eyes on Castiel, subconsciously afraid that if he looked away the angel would take off. “Where have you been?” Dean asked. “You look like crap.”

“It...has been a long day,” Castiel told him as they piled into the kitchen. Gibbs closed the door and turned to wait for an explanation from the angel. Castiel looked to the agents, then back to Dean. “Perhaps we should have this conversation in a more private setting.”

“No way,” Dean said before the others could even respond. “They've held me together this past year, and they're not ignorant about what it is we do. There's no reason not to let them in on it. Now talk.”

The angel's eyes darted around a bit at nothing in particular for a moment. “It is...embarrassing,” he admitted. “I made a rash decision when I should have simply come to you. But I hesitated because of your promise to Sam,” he met Dean's eyes. “I didn't want to pull you back into something when you had purposefully taken yourself out of it.”

“If that's really the case, why come to me now?” Dean asked.

“Perhaps I should start from the beginning.”

“That'd probably be a good start,” Dean replied.

“It's a lengthy story. You may prefer to sit down.” 

Not wanting to further delay Castiel's admissions, the three of them took a seat at the table and looked to him to continue. Castiel still seemed hesitant, and the longer he waited, the more nervous Dean became. “Come on, Cas,” he urged. “Whatever you have to say, we can handle it.”

Castiel looked at him with such sorrowful eyes, Dean's heart ached. “I'm not so sure that you'll feel the same way once I've finished,” the angel told him, then took a seat at the other end of the table. “It began, of course, with the need to defeat Raphael,” he started. “I was at a loss as to how to accomplish this. My instinct told me to come to you for help,” he looked to Dean. “But my hesitation seemed just, at the time. Unfortunately, it also led me astray and allowed opportunity for help from...the wrong party. Though his suggestions have made sense, the courses of action that were necessary to carry them out have made me weary. And in the process, it seems we are no closer to our goal than we were in the beginning. Now more than ever, Raphael's influence is strong among my brothers. I fear that we'll be too late to do anything if I don't acquire the necessary assistance.”

“What do you need me to do?” Dean asked.

“Us,” Gibbs added. “If we can.”

“And who have you been working with?” Dean queried.

Castiel looked down at the table top, much like a child about to be caught in trouble. “Crowley.”

“What?” Dean gruffly questioned. “You thought this was a good idea why?”

Castiel met his eyes. “His methods may be unorthodox, but his suggestion would be successful in defeating Raphael.”

“And what's in it for him?” 

“Actually,” Castiel explained, “The offer was to me. Crowley intended to do this with or without my assistance. But if I helped, I'd be given loan of something that would help me to defeat Raphael.”

“A loan of what?” Dean asked.

“Souls,” the angel replied. Dean wasn't sure how to respond. “Crowley wanted me to assist him in discovering the location of Purgatory. There are...countless souls there. The amount of power they would give me would help me to destroy Raphael.”

“And the power they'd give Crowley?” Dean exclaimed.

Castiel looked away for a moment. “I did not intend on allowing him to keep them.” 

Dean considered this for a moment. “So you're playing him, basically. You've learned an awful lot since I last saw you,” Dean scoffed. 

“A lot has happened since you last saw me, Dean,” the angel countered, his brows pinching in the middle. “Would you rather that I simply give up, and all your and Sam's efforts have been in vain? Do you even understand what allowing Raphael to continue would do?”

“Okay, okay,” Dean grunted. “I get the point. But I don't understand what exactly you need us for. If you wanna back out of your plan with Crowley, you can do that yourself.”

“What I need isn't pertaining to Crowley, as much as something I was required to do in the beginning per his suggestion. We needed help,” he told them, then paused, hesitating once again. He decidedly pushed away from the table and stood, walking a bit to the center of the kitchen before he continued. “We needed hunters. But we needed hunters that wouldn't be on the radar, so to speak. Another requirement would be the lack of questioning of our actions.”

“Which likely doesn't exist, unless you opted for demons,” Dean scoffed.

“No... We did not,” his head bowed, though still unseen by the group as he was faced away from them. “Instead, in order to stay under the radar, Crowley discovered a spell; one to bring someone back. Though, at the time, I was unaware of its complete effects, I was aware of what it would do. And in hindsight I realize that I've been a fool.”

“I'm lost here, Cas,” Dean said, confused. “What do you mean, 'bring someone back'? What are you tellin' me?”

“The spell...allowed for me to bring someone back without a certain aspect of their humanity which would've hindered their ability to do what we needed. And to accomplish this, under the radar, we needed to bring back another from the opposite end of the spectrum, so to speak.”

“There's an awful lot of 'so to speak', and not enough 'what the hell is going on', Cas,” Dean argued impatiently. 

“Sam,” Castiel said, then turned to look at Dean. “I brought back Sam.” Dean was stunned into silence; his chest tight and his stomach dropping or spinning or something he couldn't quite identify because of the sudden, burning rush inside of his ears. “But it's not all of him,” the angel continued, “And I'm not sure how to fix that without your assistance. Until recently, I didn't realize what a mistake it was to begin with.”

“How long?” Dean managed, still frozen in his chair. Castiel narrowed his eyes, confused as to the specifics of the question. “How long has he been back?” Dean bit out.

“Approximately ten months,” Castiel informed him, at which point Dean pushed angrily from his chair and charged him, gripping the angel's lapels in each hand. 

“How could you not tell me!?”

“You don't understand,” Castiel defended. “He's not the same Sam you know. It's not all of him.”

“You had no right!” he shouted in his face, wanting to slug him, but knowing it would only break his own hand. “You had no friggin' right to do any of this!”

“You're right,” Castiel replied repentantly. “And I am...sorry. I should have asked your permission. And I shouldn't have kept this from you.”

“You're damn right, you shouldn't have!”

“Do you have any idea what Dean's been through this past year?” Tony defended; Dean realizing he'd come over from the table. “The nightmares of Sam in Hell? How could you just let him--”

“Technically,” Castiel interrupted, “Sam is still in Hell.” Dean fixed him with a crossed look of anger and confusion. “The part that was left behind so that his resurrection would be undetected and therefore unexpected. But more importantly, so that he wouldn't fight his orders. That part was his soul.”

“His soul is still in Hell?” Gibbs questioned, standing a bit away from them. 

“Why would you leave him there?” Dean's voice shook as he looked hard into the angel's eyes. 

“It-” Castiel met Dean's eyes again and paused short. He wanted to tell him, once again, how it was necessary. How Sam's soul, his very nature, would never have followed Crowley's plan without question and possible rebellion. But the pain written on the hunter's face brought back the feeling of resentfulness and shame. “I made a grave error,” he repeated, eyes cast downward. “It's why I came to you, Dean. I believe that you are the only one that can fix this.”

“How in the hell am I gonna be able to fix this?” Dean let go of the coat. 

“Your previous...arrangement with Death. I believe he could help, provided he be willing.”

Dean's eyes darted around somewhere between them in thought for a few long moments. The room was silent at that point; no one knowing how, exactly, to respond. “Where is he?” Dean finally asked.

Castiel's brows, once again, knit together in a bit of confusion. “I am unaware of the current location of Death.”

“Not...not Death, you idiot. Sam.”

“He's several driving hours away from here,” Castiel responded, trying not to take offense to Dean's words. “There is no point in seeing him. Not until we can set things the way they're supposed to be.”

“Well how the hell am I supposed to find Death?” Dean asked.

“There is one way,” the angel responded. “It would require you to die.”

“That seems like a great idea,” Dean replied sarcastically. When Castiel didn't offer up any other suggestions, Dean cocked his head. “That's it?”

“Technically, there's a binding spell we could try. But I believe that would only anger him.”

“Well awesome,” Dean nodded, biting down on his tongue. “Just what I wanted to do, today....die again.”

“Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow,” Castiel suggested. “I am required to meet with Crowley tonight, and I fear he'll become suspicious should I not show up.”

“Just great. Yeah, fine,” Dean nodded. “When should I expect you back?”

“Tomorrow. Noon.”

“I'll ask for the day off, then.”

“Very well. Until tomorrow, Dean,” he said, and was suddenly gone. 

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Maybe I should've taken him up on his offer tonight,” he told his friends. “I'm tired. Dying would probably solve that problem.”

“You're really gonna do this?” Dean looked over at Tony at the sound of shock in his voice.

“Dude, it's Cas,” Dean told him. “He can bring me back. It's not that big a' deal.”

“Part of me knows that,” Tony replied. “But the logical part of my brain feels like this is a really bad idea, and I'm finding it mildly difficult not to freak the hell out right now.”

“Then I'm guessing there's no way you can go to sleep at the moment?” Dean asked.

“There's no way.”

“Awesome. Then you can stick with me and wake me up when it's obvious I've started dreaming,” he said plainly, and headed toward his room. Tony shared a glance with Gibbs, who shrugged, and then followed after the hunter.

Dean plopped down on the bed on top of the covers and closed his eyes. Tony, feeling a bit out of place, walked over to the chair beside the window and quietly sat down. 

“Gonna get awfully bored sitting there for a couple hours,” Dean said, not opening his eyes.

“Think I'll manage. I've got games on my phone, if nothing else,” the agent replied.

The room fell silent for a few moments. Then Dean said, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Caring,” he replied...

*~.~*

2 hours later...

“Boss!” Tony yelled, panicking as he hovered over Dean. He knew Gibbs was in the basement; neither of them able to sleep. “Gibbs!” he yelled again.

“What is it?” Gibbs rushed into the room, slightly out of breath from his quick dash up the stairs.

“Something's wrong,” he told him. “I can't wake him up, and it's like he's on fire!”

Gibbs approached the bed and appraised the young man who laid on his back, motionless. His skin was flushed and his eyes were even cracked open the slightest bit. 

“His heart rate is real slow,” Tony told him, checking his pulse.

“He's breathin',” Gibbs assured. “I'll call Duck.”

But he was stopped, suddenly, as Dean's eyes shot open and he was panting as if he'd run a marathon. Not quite seeing the men that hovered nearby, he was still frozen on the bed, for the moment.

“Dean?” Tony called out to him. “Dean, are you okay?” 

Still without a response, Gibbs placed a hand on the younger man's chest. “Dean. You with us?” he asked when Dean's eyes met his. Dean's eyes darted about for a moment, before pushing quickly up from the bed and making a mad dash for the bathroom. Tony was quick to follow, and found him vomiting whatever mix of stomach acid and alcohol from his system into the toilet. 

“Thought you were gonna wake me up,” Dean said once he was finished, then flushed.

“I tried,” Tony replied. “You were completely out of it and running a fever or something. We were gonna get Ducky over here.”

“Well...seems I'm fine now.”

“Whatever happened,” Gibbs said from the doorway, “Wasn't normal.”

“Nothin' ever is with me,” Dean replied. 

“It's almost like you really were in hell, as hot as you were burning up, man,” Tony said.

“That's ridiculous,” Dean scoffed, turning on the faucet and splashing cool water over his face. 

Tony shared a worried glance with Gibbs...


	9. Chapter 9

“You didn't have to stay,” Dean told Tony as he laid down on the couch in preparation for his temporary death. “It's Cas. I'll be okay.”

“All the same, I wouldn't have been able to concentrate at work, knowing what's happening. Just need to see for myself that you'll be okay.”

“I'll give you ten minutes,” the angel told Dean where he stood beside the couch. “I believe that should be an adequate amount of time.”

“Let's get this over with,” Dean let out a breath. “No drawing things on my face while I'm out,” he joked, attempting to lighten to mood for Tony. But the agent only returned with a worried half-smile, and then Castiel reached out and touched Dean's chest. Dean went completely limp; eyes closed.

It only took a minute for his face to show signs that there was no longer blood pumping through his veins to carry oxygen through his body. 

Tony looked down, running his hands down his own face and keeping them over his mouth with anxious nervousness. 

*~.~*

“Alright,” Dean said as he walked to the kitchen, unseen by those around him, “This better work.” He began reciting some Latin until Tessa, his reaper, appeared.

“Dean?” 

He spun around at the sound of her voice. “Well, what do ya know. It worked.”

“What the hell? I was in the Sudan. What's with yanking me o- wait, why are you dead?”

“'Cause I need a favor.”

“Oh you're kidding. You died to ask me-”

“Tell your boss I need to talk to him.”

Her brows rose. “No.”

“Please?”

“Where do you get the nerve?” she shook her head.

“Desperate times,” he replied.

“He calls us; we don't call him.”

“You make an exception!”

“I can't.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

“Both.”

“Alright, Tessa,” Death's voice sounded behind Dean, “Thank you very much.” Dean turned and met his eyes, slightly apprehensive now that he was face to face with the very person he'd been looking for. “Hello, Dean. I'm busy. Talk fast.”

“I have something of yours,” he said, walking over to where Death sat.

“You mean my ring? I recall loaning that temporarily.”

“Well, if you want it back-” he began, trying to seem threatening, but not quite able to make that work.

“I'm sorry. You assume that I don't know where you've hidden it?” he glanced at the hunter. Dean's eyes darted a bit, not really knowing how to respond to the unexpected news. “Now we've established that you have hubris, but no leverage,” he looked at Dean. “What is it you want?”

“Lucifer's cage. I figure you're one of the few people that can actually jailbreak in.”

“True.”

“Sam's soul is stuck in that box.”

“I've heard,” Death nodded.

“And our other brother's trapped in there too. Michael rode him in.”

“Dean, quit shuffling and deal,” Death looked pointedly at him.

“I want you to get 'em both out.”

Death seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Hm,” he considered, looking away. Then he looked back at him, “Pick one.”

“What?” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Sam's soul, or Adam's.”

“Wh-”

“As a rule, I don't bring people back. I might make an exception once; not twice. So pick.”

“Sam,” Dean replied without hesitation, though somewhere deep inside, a part of him he needed to forcibly ignore at the moment, hurt like hell. “His soul has been in there for a year,” he moved to sit, “And I understand that its...damaged.”

“Try flayed to the raw nerve.”

Dean was all too aware of what that probably meant. “Well, is there any way you could, ya know, hack the Hell part off?” 

Death leaned back at bit before pushing up to stand. “Dean, Dean, Dean. What do you think the soul is? Some pie you can slice? The soul can be bludgeoned, tortured, but never broken. Not even by me.”

“Well there's gotta be something...”

“Maybe,” he replied, and Dean stood. “I can't erase Sam's Hell, but I can...put it behind a wall, if you will.”

“A wall...”

“In his mind,” he clarified. “A dam to hold back the tide. Nasty, those memories. You don't know what they'll do to him,” he said as he walked a bit past Dean. “Believe me.” He walked back to his chair and sat again.

“Okay. A wall,” Dean agreed. “Sounds good.”

“But it's not permanent,” Tessa chimed in.

“She's right. Nothing can last forever,” Death said. “Well...I do.”

“Alright, so that's the choice. Sam with no soul, or Sam with some dry-wall that, if or when it collapses, he's....done?” Dean asked.

“Yeah.”

“Do it,” Dean replied, looking down a bit.

Death stood. “I never said I'd do it.”

“Well then what the hell have we been talkin' about?” Dean gruffly replied.

“Your prize,” Death told him. Dean looked confused. “If you win the wager.”

Dean felt a twitch coming on, “Great. What's the bet?” he rolled his eyes.

Death came right up to his face, “Don't roll your eyes. It's impolite.” Dean immediately sobered his expression. “Now when you fetch my ring, put it on.”

“What?”

“I want you to be me for one day.”

“Are you serious?”

Death widened his eyes and tilted his head, “No, I'm being incredibly sarcastic.” He walked past him again, and turned around. “Take the ring off before the twenty-four hours are up, and you lose. No soul for Sam. Clear?”

Dean thought for a moment, “Okay. Yes. But...but why?”

“Simple, Dean. Because-”

 

Dean took a deep breath, as he was suddenly jolted awake, or rather back to life, on the couch. “Nice timing, Cas,” he said sarcastically.

“Are you okay?” Tony asked from where he sat on the coffee table beside him.

“I'm fine,” he told him, taking Tony's offered hand to help pull him up. 

“What happened?” Castiel inquired. “Will he work with us?”

“Yeah. Only I've gotta work for him, first,” Dean explained. 

“What's that mean?” Tony asked.

“I've gotta play Death for twenty-four hours...”


	10. Chapter 10

Dean's wager with Death had failed. He'd ended up taking the ring off before his time was up, in order to right a wrong he'd done with the power he'd been given. It had, in the end, been a lot more difficult than he'd imagined.

But by some odd twist of fate, Death had just been trying to teach Dean something with the wager. His intention all along was to retrieve Sam's soul anyway. He left Dean sitting at the kitchen table in Gibbs' house after telling him he'd be going to Hell to get the soul. And now all Dean could think was that he really really needed to sleep.

Since he had the house to himself for the time being, he decided to take advantage, and stalk into the bedroom, foregoing any such bothers to change out of his clothes. But he did think to call upon Castiel as he fell into bed.

“How was your twenty-four hours?” the angel asked when he appeared in the room.

“Craptastic,” Dean replied, not bothering to open his eyes where he lay. “But Death is on his way to Hell to get Sam's soul. So you might wanna get Sam here, somehow. Death will be back within a day.”

“Did he mention what the consequences of returning Sam's soul after so long could include?”

“He's gonna put up a wall,” Dean said sleepily. “Only thing he can do. Hopefully it sticks.”

“A wall?”

“Just get Sam here, will ya, Cas? I'll explain more tomorrow. I need to sleep, nightmares or not.” 

“I will. But I should warn you; Sam will be reluctant to accept the return of his soul. You should prepare for this.” Castiel stood silently for a moment, not receiving a reply from Dean, before leaving to find Sam...

*~.~*

Tony awoke on Gibbs' couch the next morning after hearing movement in the kitchen. To his surprise, Dean was cooking. And once Tony's sense of smell decided to start working, he recognized the scent of bacon and eggs. And pancakes. 

Three things went through his head at that moment. One, he was hungry. Two, Dean had never, in the entire time he'd been there, cooked breakfast. Not that he hadn't wanted to help out. He almost always made dinner for them when they were home for it, and did everything he could to help out around the house. But he'd never been mentally capable at any point in the morning to even consider eating, let alone preparing a meal for others.

Three, he wanted to know what happened yesterday. In fact, when they'd gotten home the previous night, he'd sought out the hunter for information, but found him fast asleep. Tony had even stayed up a while, waiting for the inevitable moment when Dean would be thrust awake from the nightmares and refuse to go back to bed. But Tony had fallen asleep before that happened. 

Tony stood from the couch and made his way to the kitchen. “Morning,” he greeted Dean.

“Hey,” Dean glanced back at him. “Breakfast's almost ready. Grab yourself some coffee.”

“How long have you been up?” Tony asked, as he made his way to the cupboard for a mug. “Gibbs isn't even up yet.”

“About an hour, I guess,” he told him. 

“You slept through the night?”

“Yeah. No nightmares. Seems weird, but I'm not complaining.”

“That's...great, actually. Good to hear,” Tony told him as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “How did it go yesterday?”

“Long story. But the part that matters, Death will be bringing Sam's soul back today. So we need to prepare. Apparently, he might be a little reluctant to get it back.”

“That's good news; the soul thing, I mean,” Tony replied. “What do you mean, he'll be reluctant?”

“Not sure. Something Cas said last night. I think. Can't be too sure, actually, that I wasn't just dreaming it,” he cocked his head, smirking just a bit as he plated the food. “I made all the eggs scrambled,” he said, turning to Tony. “That cool with you?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he answered. “Thanks,” he took the proffered plate of food.

“You made breakfast?” Gibbs' voice sounded as he entered the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, turning to prepare him a plate. “Coffee, too. Though you'd already set that up. I just pressed a button,” he smirked, handing Gibbs a plate. 

“Thanks.”

“I'll get your coffee,” Dean turned and grabbed a mug from the cupboard, and Gibbs took a seat at the table with Tony, who shared a glance with him. 

“I take it yesterday went well?” Gibbs inquired.

“He'll be here later today,” Dean told him. “Sam and...ya know...his soul.”

Gibbs paused, mid-chew, looking at the younger man as he made his way to the table with his own plate. Three thoughts went through his head in that moment. One, he'd not seen Dean eat breakfast in his entire time living with him this past year. Two, Dean made really good eggs. And three, Sam was going to be there. Today.

“There anything we need to be doing?” Gibbs asked.

“Not a damn clue,” Dean replied, stuffing a giant forkful of eggs into his mouth. 

“He didn't have nightmares last night,” Tony told Gibbs.

“That's real good,” Gibbs replied. “Good to see you actually got some sleep, for once.”

“It's weird, ya know?” Dean replied over his mouthful of eggs. “I'm still worried as hell. This wall thing Death said he'd put up in Sam's head, there's a pretty fair chance it'll fail. Maybe not even work at all. So I'm kinda terrified. Yet I feel better today than I have in the past friggin' year.” He dove back into his eggs.

Gibbs and Tony shared a glance. 

*~.~*

“So,” Tony began, as they tested to make sure the cot was secured to the floor of Gibbs' basement, “Tell me again why we're doing all of this?”

“Cas said that Sam might be reluctant to get his soul back,” Dean explained. “This is precautionary.”

“Cuffing him to a bed?”

“If we have to,” Dean replied. “Hopefully that won't be the case. But I'm not taking any liberties if Cas says he might fight us. So when he zaps directly down here, we play it cool and see how things go.”

“Don't you think seeing this might set him off to begin with?” Tony asked incredulously. 

Dean cocked his head slightly, gazing over the cot. “You might have a point. But I figured this looked more like a replica of Bobby's panic room; like maybe he won't even notice anything's off.”

“Why not just do this at Bobby's?” Gibbs asked. “Not that you're not welcome to do it here...”

“Bobby and I aren't on the best of terms, at the moment,” Dean replied, wandering to one side of the basement, looking for something to cover the cot with. “He knew. He knew this whole time that Sam was back. And he said nothing.” He grabbed a drop-cloth from a box and walked back toward the cot. “So yeah, I'm not really in the mood for askin' Bobby for anything.” He draped the cloth over the cot. “There!” he smirked.

“Oh yeah,” Tony raised his brows, “That's not suspicious at all.”

“Shut up,” Dean replied without any bite, then made his way toward the bottle of bourbon sitting on the work bench. “Mind if I...” he glanced to Gibbs, who shrugged. “Thanks.”

The telltale sound of rustling wings was heard behind him and he spun around. 

“Dean.” It was Sam. Castiel was beside him, sure. But Sam was right there, looking at Dean like he was surprised, yet glad to see him. 

“Sam?” His younger brother smiled, and suddenly Dean's ears were ringing, though he couldn't understand why. But a hundred thoughts raced through his mind; one of them wondering what, exactly, Sam was without his soul. 

Sam looked over at the agents, narrowing his eyes for a moment until he came to the realization of who they were. “Gibbs? Tony?” he asked.

Tony smiled cautiously, “Hey, Sam.”

“Good to see you,” Gibbs said.

Castiel stepped forward, looking to Dean. “I must leave for now. There is a problem with Crowley. I'll return when I can.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean replied, though he wasn't exactly sure what he was thanking him for. Then the angel was gone. Dean's eyes fell back on his brother who was now stepping forward, himself.

“I know what you're planning,” Sam told him. “I think it's great, you getting my soul out of the pit. But I don't want it back.”

“What're you talking about?” Dean asked. “Why wouldn't you want it back, Sam? It's your soul.”

“Without it, I'm a better hunter,” he told him in a tone meant to be convincing.

“Hunting isn't all that matters,” Dean replied.

Sam let out a small laugh, “That's funny. Coming from you.”

“Why does not having a soul make you a better hunter?” Tony inquired.

Sam looked over at him briefly, and Tony noticed the difference between looking at this Sam, and the Sam he knew. They all did. 

“Because there's nothing to get in my way,” Sam explained, looking back to Dean. “There's no hesitation to make the right call because some pesky bit of conscience fights its way into the equation. They can't use anyone against me. There's no one; not Bobby, Cas...not even you, Dean. They can't use any of you against me, because I just...don't care. About any of you.”

Something inside of Dean broke. Sam didn't care about him? About any of them? And what in the hell had happened in the past year, that Sam had come to these conclusions? What godawful things had he done to figure out that 'not caring about anyone' got the job done?

He gave Sam a once-over, noticing how much he'd hulked out since he'd seen him last. He was huge. In fact, there was nothing familiar about the man that stood in front of them, other than his face and voice. And even his voice had something in it that made Dean wary. 

“Well, that's too bad,” Dean told him as calmly as he could manage. “Because I don't need a robot. I don't need some heartless terminator. I need my brother.”

“This isn't about you, Dean,” Sam argued. “I've made my decision.”

“Yeah, well,” he smirked, “You don't get human rights without a soul, buddy.”

Sam glared at him for a long, awkward moment. The men all stood there, unsure of what to do next. “If you're going to fight me on this,” Sam finally spoke, “There's a way to ensure you can't put it back.”

“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Dean gruffly asked.

“I knew what you were planning, so I did some research. Killing my father would make this vessel unfit for accepting its soul back.”

“Our father is dead,” Dean's face skewed angrily.

“Father figure will do,” he retorted. “And since Bobby is a bit far away right now, there's one other person I can think of.”

Dean prepared himself mentally to fight Sam. But he was momentarily confused about what Sam planned to do. Until Sam suddenly lunged in Gibbs' direction. “Sam, no!” Dean shouted, trying to beat him there.

But Tony came between Gibbs and Sam at the last second, and the struggle began. Gibbs came around Tony and pulled Sam off of him, right as Dean gripped the front of Sam's shirt in his hands and spun him around, shoving him up into the workbench with a crash.

Sam pulled himself up, ready to face Gibbs and Dean who stood ready in front of him. Sam dove for Dean, but was stopped by his brother's fist connecting with his face. It knocked him to the ground, and Dean was quick to hover over him and deliver a few more punches before Sam could even calculate another blow. 

Gibbs quickly grabbed onto Sam's left arm and began to haul him to the cot, with Dean assisting on the right. They managed to tear off the drop-cloth, shove Sam down onto the bed, though he was quite close to unconsciousness now, and Dean snapped the wrist and ankle cuff securely as Gibbs started on the other side. 

Dean stood, appraising his brother one last time before hitting him to knock him out, just for spite. He looked down at himself, confused for a moment as to where the blood on his hands and shirt had come from. Something pulled his attention over to the senior field agent, who had been absent from the fight since his initial blocking of Sam.

“No...” Dean blanched, then met Tony's eyes just as Tony met his. Tony looked down at his own chest to see the handle of a knife buried to the hilt, sticking out from between his ribs. Out of some kind of confused shock, he pulled it out as if he was just now noticing its presence in any fashion. It immediately fell from his hands, clanging to the floor. Tony felt it now. Gibbs looked over at the sound of metal hitting the concrete. 

“Tony!” Dean lunged for him as his friend's knees began to buckle...


	11. Chapter 11

Gibbs was at his side in a heart beat, helping to lay Tony on the floor on his back. He pressed a hand over the bleeding wound, then looked up at Dean. “Get Castiel. Get him here, now!”

“Cas!” Dean called, looking up for a moment. “Cas, we need you now!” he said, then looked back down at his friend, laying a hand on the top of Tony's head, trying not to completely freak out. Tony's eyes looked pleadingly at his, then to Gibbs', and back. “Cas'll be here,” with a shaky voice, Dean tried to assure him. “It'll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

“I...know,” Tony managed to squeak out, then he looked to Gibbs, who for all intents and purposes, seemed to be focusing hard on stopping the blood flow that was coming freely from Tony's chest. The look of concern and fear, which the older man usually did a damn good job of not showing, was as evident on his face as anything. Though pain blossomed greater in his chest and it was getting harder and harder to breathe, Tony wanted nothing more than to comfort his friends. 

He reached his hand up until he found the sleeve on Gibbs' arm and held onto it, forcing Gibbs to meet his eyes. “I'm...I'm gon'...gonna be...okay, b-boss,” he told him.

Gibbs swallowed against the nerves, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah you are, DiNozzo,” he replied, gripping onto Tony's hand with his free one. “You're gonna be fine,” he willed himself to believe it, then glanced up at Dean.

Dean stood and began pacing, “Cas, we need you here! Come on!” Why the angel wasn't there yet, he couldn't imagine. But he was starting to slightly freak the hell out. 

“D-don't be m-mad at S-Sam,” Tony squeezed Gibbs' hand, riding a wave of pain, so he could continue. “Woul-wouldn't have done it...He wouldn't...It w-wasn't h-him,” he coughed, and blood poured from his mouth.

“Don't talk, Tony,” Gibbs told him. “Just hang on.”

“N-not sure I...can,” Tony's breaths were quick and shallow; blood still making its way down his cheek.

Gibbs looked desperately at the hunter that continued to pace and call out for Castiel. He tried not to think about the feeling of warm blood oozing from between his fingers where they lay tight against the wound on Tony's chest. He looked to the still figure that lay strapped to the cot, and thought about what Tony had asked of him; not to be angry with the man. He knew that wasn't Sam. Not really. And he hadn't been going for Tony. Tony had stepped between them. That knife was meant for Gibbs...and Tony had saved him.

He looked back down at his agent, realizing that he was now still under his hands. Tony's eyes were closed. There was no rise and fall of his chest; no heart beat felt where his hand pressed against his chest. Gibbs felt the stinging in his eyes as he slowly pulled his hand away from the wound, looking at the lifeless face of his friend.

The memory rushed back to him of a few year prior when he'd watched Tony die in his arms. The feeling was just as strong now, even though there was hope for this to be reversed. But there was still the nagging questions at the back of his mind: would Castiel come back? Would he save him? What if Castiel didn't come back? What if he couldn't?

Dean stopped pacing when he looked over and saw the devastation on Gibbs' face. Tony was no longer struggling. And though that should've been a good thing, for the time being Dean felt his heart tear. Tony and Gibbs had been a rock for him this past year. Tony...Tony had been like a brother to him. Dean honestly didn't know if he'd have made it this far without him...

He watched as Gibbs carefully lifted the upper-half of the agent's body from the floor and held him to his chest, with a lost look on his face. Suddenly he hated himself; hated that he was putting them through this again. He shouldn't have come here; shouldn't have put their lives in danger...

“Godamnit, Cas, come on!” he shouted toward the ceiling. 

“I was unable to return until now,” Castiel's voice sounded across the room. “Crowley was suspicious of the sudden disappearance of one of our major assets.”

“Why didn't you tell me Sam was dangerous?” Dean asked angrily. “You should've zapped him to sleep or something! Look what he's done!” he motioned to Tony.

“I...” Castiel's brows knitted together, “I apologize. I was unaware that he would attempt something like this.”

“He said he'd found a loophole to keep from getting his soul returned to his body,” Dean replied. “He tried to kill Gibbs, but Tony stood in the way.”

“Then he was not successful,” the angel told him as he made his way to the agents; Gibbs laying Tony back down with a bit of relief that Castiel had finally showed up. He placed a hand on Tony's head, and like every other time, suddenly everything was right again. Tony sat up, feeling slightly strange and disconnected at the events of the last several minutes. 

Castiel turned to Sam's prone body. “What happened to him?” he asked Dean.

“I beat the crap out of him. That's what,” Dean replied. Castiel reached down and healed Sam as well, and the younger hunter began to wake up. 

“Well,” Death's voice sounded by the stairs, and all eyes were suddenly on him. “It's good to see I'll be returning Sam's soul to a healthy physique.” He made his way toward the cot while the rest of the men in the room moved away cautiously. Castiel moved with them, giving Death enough room to do what he needed. 

Sam was fully awake now, looking wide-eyed at the figure that sank down beside him on the cot. “No,” he protested, then looked to Dean with pleading eyes. “Dean, you know what this could do,” he told him. “It could mean the end of me! I could be a vegetable! I may never wake up!”

Death looked over at Dean who was fighting an internal battle, knowing this wasn't truly Sam speaking, but it was so hard to determine the difference when he looked and sounded essentially the same. He glanced at Death, meeting his eyes, “Do it.”

“No! No, please!” Sam begged, pulling uselessly against the restraints.

“Now, Sam,” Death said as he opened the case he set on the cot, “I'm going to set up a barrier inside your mind.”

“No...don't touch me...”

“It might feel a little...itchy. Do me a favor,” he said as Sam glanced to Dean, then back to Death, “Don't scratch the wall.” Sam's wide eyes and panicked breath made Dean start to feel a bit afraid. “Because trust me,” Death continued, “You're not going to like what happens.”

Sam looked back to Dean, “Please...don't do this...” Dean remained silent, watching as Death picked up the brilliant ball of light from the bag. Sam looked at it in terror, then back to Dean. “No...you don't know what'll happen to me. Dean, please!” Death moved the light toward Sam as the hunter continued to try and argue a way out of it. 

Death pushed the soul into Sam, and Sam screamed and arched up off of the cot at the pain the transplant entailed. Dean watched, slightly horrified and instinctively saddened to watch and hear his little brother in such pain...

*~.~*

The three men waited upstairs as Castiel checked Sam who was unconscious in the basement. Death had left after placing Sam's soul back into his body and setting up the barrier. Now, Dean paced the floor in front of the basement door.

Castiel came up moments later. Dean stopped and turned to him. “Well?”

“His soul is in place.”

“Is he ever gonna wake up?”

“I'm not a human doctor, Dean.”

“Would ya take a guess?” he asked frustratedly.

“Okay. Probably not.”

“Well, don't sugar-coat it,” he looked at the door.

“I'm sorry. Perhaps returning his soul wasn't the best course of action...”

“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Dean asked incredulously. “You said it needed to be done! That it was a mistake to have brought him back without it!”

“When I felt his soul,” the angel told him, “It felt...as if it had been skinned alive. Perhaps killing him would've been a better solution.” 

“Hey, screw you!” Dean shouted. “That's never the solution!” Castiel looked at him with saddened, regretful eyes, before quickly leaving. Dean stood there, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat...


	12. Chapter 12

It'd been twenty-four hours. Dean hadn't slept more than an hour. The rest of the time, he'd been in and out checking on Sam. 

“He still asleep?” Tony asked as Dean took a seat at the kitchen table across from him.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, pouring some whiskey from his flask into a glass.

“He'll wake up,” Tony told him, cupping his hands around his mug of coffee. Gibbs had headed to the store to pick up some groceries about twenty minutes ago, leaving the three of them remaining by themselves. 

“Yeah,” Dean looked down unconvinced; Castiel's words still ringing loudly in his head.

“Dean, Sam's been through how much? I mean both of you... You always bounce back.”

“He's never been through this,” Dean retorted, meeting Tony's eyes. Tony looked at him for a long moment, before nodding in understanding. It was then that Dean noticed an open file on the table beside Tony's coffee. “You got a new case?”

“Not really. It's a cold case. But something about it bugs the hell outta me.”

“What's buggin' you about it?” Dean asked, happy to change the subject. “Never catch the guy?”

“We caught the guy,” Tony replied. “But...there's something about him. Something in his eyes. I dunno. I just feel like he didn't do it. I feel like he was telling me the truth. But all the evidence pointed to him. Hell, we even had him on tape! Something just...doesn't sit right with me, though. I can't figure it out.” Dean reached out for the file, glancing to Tony for permission before sliding it over to himself. “Gibbs keeps telling me to drop it.”

“Gibbs is usually right about this stuff,” Dean countered. 

“Yeah. He is. But there's just...something.”

“Dean?” Dean's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his brother's voice behind him, and he turned around in his seat.

“Sam?” he stood from his chair as Sam walked toward him. Sam had his arms around Dean in a bone-crushing hug before Dean could say anything more. So many thoughts were racing through Dean's mind. This is my Sammy. I have Sam back. He's back. Finally, he's out of Hell, and back with me. Those were among them. And it took him a moment to realize he wanted desperately to hug him back, and hadn't yet. 

His arms, once shocked and hovering, now wrapped just as tightly around Sam. Regardless of how 'chick-flick' it made him, Dean didn't want to let go. He was just so relieved that Sam wasn't suffering anymore; that he was back with him...

But then he was letting go. Dean forced himself to open his eyes before Sam looked at his face. Then Sam looked over to the agent who was standing beside the table, now. “Tony,” Sam seemed both surprised and glad to see him. Tony was just as surprised when Sam walked to him and pulled him into a hug as well.

“It's good to see you,” Tony said, hugging him back.

“It's been forever,” Sam replied, pulling away. 

“Sam, are you okay?” Dean asked.

Sam turned to him, “Yeah. Actually...I'm starving.”

*~.~*

While Tony went to find something to make, Dean explained how Castiel had been brought back, and how the angel had brought back Bobby. Sam was overjoyed by this news, having still remembered, vividly, not being able to stop Lucifer from killing them both...with the snap of his fingers.

Luckily, Gibbs had come back with food before Tony went into panic mode rummaging through the refrigerator for something to make Sam to eat. He'd shopped for groceries, but opted to get some take-out on his way back home. Sam was currently shoveling chow-mein into his mouth expertly with chopsticks.

The others sat around the table, watching him with some sense of fascination. “So, Sam,” Dean started, “What's the last thing you remember?”

Sam looked at him, momentarily pausing mid-chew as he thought. “The field. Then I fell.” He swallowed the bite of food in his mouth.

“Okay,” Dean replied. “And then?”

“Uh. Then I woke up in the basement,” he replied, shoveling another large bunch of noodles into his mouth.

“That's it?” Gibbs asked. “You really don't rememb-”

“Let's be glad,” Dean interrupted. “Who wants to remember all that Hell?”

Sam swallowed what was in his mouth, looking worriedly at his brother. “W- h-how long was I gone?”

“About a year,” Dean told him calmly.

“What? I was downstairs for...” he let out an astonished breath. “I don't remember anything.” His eyes darted back and forth between the agents and Dean. “How did I get back? Was it Cas?”

“Not exactly,” Dean glanced down at the table.

“Dean, what'd you do?” Sam asked, apprehensive about the possible answer.

“Me and Death-”

“Death? The Horseman?” Sam gruffly questioned.

“I had leverage,” Dean defended, holding a hand up off of the table, slightly. “It's done.”

“Are you sure?”

“It's over. Slate's wiped,” he assured him. 

Sam looked back over at the agents for a moment. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked Dean.

“No,” Dean shook his head. Sam couldn't help but to feel like Dean wasn't telling him the whole truth...

*~.~*

“Let me get this straight,” Dean said into his phone as he drove toward Tony's apartment, “You knew Sam was back, this whole time, and said nothing?”

“I wasn't given a choice,” Bobby said on the other line. “Like I said, there was some crazy stuff goin' on, and Sam didn't want you to know he was back, because you'd finally gotten out. But I swear I didn't know about the whole 'no soul' thing. Or I woulda told you right off the bat.”

“I was suffering, Bobby...for almost a year! Someone should've told me...”

“I'm sorry, boy. I truly am.”

Dean sighed, as he came to a stop at the light and swiped a hand down his face. “Is this why you called? To apologize?”

“Part of it. Actually, I need you boys to help me with somethin'.”

“What's that?”

“Ya know that damn deal I made with Crowley?”...

*~.~*

“He wants us to get on a plane, Sammy. A plane!” Dean tried his best not to flip out, but was doing a poor job of it. “And not just a little plane ride, either. Overseas, Sam! Freaking Scotland!” 

Sam couldn't help the amused smirk, though he tried not to let it show. “Dude, it's gonna be the hardest part of this whole mission. You can do this. I'll even hold your hand.”

Dean shot him a glare, “Screw you, Sam.”

“Seriously, though,” he let out a small laugh, “There's alcohol on the flight, and we're not going to be fighting any monsters.”

Dean slowed his nervous pacing and looked off to the side as he considered this. “Alright. Fine. Guess I don't really have a choice. Bobby needs our help...”


	13. Chapter 13

Dean was already two expensive shots of whiskey primed by the time they boarded their flight. But what he thought he'd had under control soon diminished, the moment he once again realized how long the flight was going to be...over the freaking ocean.

“Dean?” Sam's voice caught his attention, and he turned his head to look at him. “Breathe.” That's when he realized he'd actually been holding his breath in some failed attempt to not let his nerves show. He let it out in a rush, and Sam cringed. “Dude, not on me,” he fanned the air between them. 

“I dunno if I can do this,” Dean told him, facing forward again. Sam let out a humored laugh. “Don't laugh at me! It's not funny!”

“You sound like every pregnant women in labor on a TV show or movie I've ever watched.”

“The fact that you've watched these things, makes me question your right to be picking on me right now, bitch.”

“Touche...jerk,” Sam conceded. “How about another drink?”

“Yeah, fine, okay...”

“Ah, there you lads are!” a familiar voice rang out from the entrance of the plane, and they looked up.

“Ducky?” Dean was surprised to see him.

“I heard you boys were headed to Scotland, and thought you might like a guide,” the older man made his way toward them. Sam hadn't seen anyone from NCIS besides Tony and Gibbs yet, and currently had a grin on his face. “It is so good to see you, Samuel,” he told the younger hunter as he approached their seats. “Give an old man a proper greeting, now, would you?” he held out his arms.

Sam stood, reaching over Dean who remained seated, and gave Ducky a hug. “Good to see you, too, Ducky.”

“Tim and Ziva will be hearing the news of your return, shortly,” he told Sam as they separated. “It's a shame you have to leave the country not long after returning from...” he glanced around for a moment, before looking back at the both of them, “Well, you know.”

“Well hopefully this won't take too long,” Sam replied.

“Good morning, flyers,” a voice sounded over the speaker system. “This is your captain speaking. It's a beautiful day for flying. We're getting ready for take-off in less than five minutes now, so please prepare for instructions from our flight attendants...”

Whatever else the pilot had to say, Dean didn't hear. He was too busy hyperventilating.

“Oh my,” Ducky said, seeing the state of the young man.

Sam turned to see his brother's panic. “Dean, it's gonna be okay,” he told him, a bit worried now himself at the severity of Dean's panic. “Just breathe, man,” he put a hand on his back as Dean leaned over a bit, trying desperately to comply with the instructions.

“Perhaps he needs some anti-anxiety medication, which I happen to have on-hand?” Ducky offered. 

“He needs something, for sure,” Sam replied. “He can't do this for nine hours. But he's had something to drink...”

“As long as he deters from any more, I'm certain it'll be alright to take something. And I do agree, it'll do him no good to have panic attacks for the duration of this trip,” he said, fishing out a small bottle from his carry-on. “Here you are, Sam. Give him one of these, for now. We'll see if it helps. I'm just a few rows behind you, should you need me.”

“Thanks, Ducky,” Sam replied. 

*~.~*

Dean had gratefully passed out about forty minutes after taking the pill Ducky had given him. Sam had been tired, and fell asleep once he knew Dean was settled. It was somewhere around five hours into their trip that Sam woke up. He turned his head to look at his still sleeping brother, then sat up and turned around to see that Ducky was asleep as well. In fact, a good majority of the passengers were. The only ones awake were watching the in-flight movie. 

Sam wasn't even sure what it was that was playing. It didn't look familiar, and he didn't have headphones in order to hear what was going on, on the screen. Instead, he chose to quietly retrieve his laptop from the bag under his seat. He hadn't yet used it since he'd been back. But Dean had taken good care of everything; probably even used the computer, himself. There had been a chest filled with his belongings in the garage next to the Impala which had been covered up and unused, just to keep a low profile. 

As the computer booted, Sam noticed a folder on the desktop he'd not seen before. He figured it must be something Dean had made. He clicked on it and realized that it was filled with documented research and pictures, all dated and categorized in separate folders within that one. It really seemed...unlike Dean. Organization, that is. But then he furrowed his brows, wondering how and why, exactly, there was documentation on hunts, when Dean had expressed that he had left the life, as promised. 

Something akin to anger and betrayal burned in his chest as he hovered the pointer over the folders. But he decided to shove it aside for the moment. He'd address this when they were back home. Instead, he closed the folder and opted to play solitaire for the next hour...

*~.~*

Scotland was easy, once they found the graveyard that contained Crowley's bones. Getting Bobby his soul back went a lot better than they'd expected. Getting back on the plane to go home was the worst part of the entire journey for Dean. But Ducky gave him another pill, so he didn't full-out panic this time. 

Sam decided to wait until they got back home to Gibbs' house, to bring up the subject about the files on the laptop. They were in the basement, loading their clothes from the trip into the washer.

“So, you were using my laptop...” Sam said calmly, as he stuffed the last pair of jeans into the wash.

“What?” Dean glanced at him as he measured the soap. “No. I've got my own.. I didn't even know I had yours- shit...” Shit, Dean thought. He'd forgotten to go through the laptop after Castiel brought it back from wherever Sam had been staying.

“Yeah,” Sam narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you'd stopped hunting.”

“I did,” Dean retorted.

“Well, there's about a year's worth of documents that say otherwise.”

Dean's eyes darted around, trying to figure out how to get around the subject. But nothing would come to mind. “They're not mine, Sam. I didn't put them there. I promise you, I did not hunt.”

“Then how did they get there, Dean?” he argued.

“I don't know! Cas brought it to me when we got you back...” he regretted giving that information as soon as it left his mouth, and quickly had to back it up with something else. “Bobby must've had it...” Sam seemed to consider this possibility. “I promise I didn't hunt, Sammy,” Dean repeated.

“He's telling you the truth,” Gibbs said, appearing on the stairs as he stealthily descended them. Sam and Dean both looked over at him. “He's been working at the garage in town, full-time. And I would've noticed if he'd have done otherwise.”

Sam glanced between the two of them, a mixture of relief and a bit of regret flashed over his features for having made the accusation. “Okay,” he replied to Gibbs, then looked to his brother. “I'm sorry...I shouldn't have made assumptions.”

“It's okay,” Dean told him, glancing gratefully at Gibbs before turning back to start the washer. But Sam watched him, knowing there was something he wasn't being told, and it was driving him nuts. 

“I'm uh...I'm gonna go upstairs and take a nap,” Sam told them. “Feeling a bit jet-lagged.”

“Gonna make dinner in a couple hours,” Dean told him, “So I'll come wake you up when it's ready.” Sam nodded and gave a small smile before heading up the stairs.

Once the youngest was gone, Gibbs looked to Dean. “What's going on?”

“Something on Sam's computer I didn't account for,” Dean sighed. “Apparently he kept good record of his hunts. I should've thought of that. Sam's always been OCD. Guess not havin' a soul didn't change that part of him.”

“So what'll you tell him?”

“I'm hoping Bobby will back the story. But I'm gonna have to get in and delete all of that stuff before he digs any deeper...”

*~.~*

Sam locked the door to the upstairs guest room, and sat down at the edge of the bed. He'd attempted to call Bobby and ask him about the laptop. The older hunter confirmed Dean's story, but Sam still felt like something was missing.

He let out a breath, closed his eyes, and did the only thing he could think to do... “Castiel... I'm back. So...if you have a minute...” he opened his eyes and looked around the room. He turned his head, looking behind him toward the wall, then turned back. There stood the angel, looking inquisitively at him.

“Sam. It's so good to see you alive.” Sam stood.

“Yeah...you too,” he told him. When Castiel came toward him, looking as though he wanted to give him a hug, Sam felt indescribably awkward and sat back down. “Um...look, I-I'd hug you, but...”

“It would be awkward,” Cas supplied for him, then turned, uncomfortably, giving Sam some space.

“Crazy year, huh?” Sam tried a tactic he was sure would possibly only work on Castiel. “I just talked to Bobby. He told me everything that happened...” he lied.

“Frankly, I'm surprised that you survived.” Sam looked up at him. “I told Dean it was likely the wrong move...”

Sam was confused, but played along, “Yeah...I...I can understand that.”

“You know, it's a miracle it didn't kill you.”

“Yeah...yeah it's a miracle alright,” he nodded, looking somewhere beside him.

“So how does it feel?” Castiel asked, narrowed his eyes.

“What?” Sam looked back up at him questioningly.

“Well, to have your soul back, of course,” the angel replied.

Sam tried to school his feelings, though his heart was suddenly in his throat, nearly breaking. “Right...” he shook his head, “Because I was...walkin' around with no soul...” He felt tears stinging his eyes, but he shoved everything as far down as he could. He needed more information. “Uh...really good, Cas. Real good. Ya know, I'm just...hazy on a few of the details, though. Um...you think maybe you could...walk me through?”


	14. Chapter 14

A guard led Tony down the half-mile walk of prison cells, toward the cell of Thomas R. Maggi; the man convicted of killing three women, and possibly more. This was the cold case Gibbs had told Tony to drop. It had never led anywhere, and the man was behind bars. There was irrefutable evidence to prove he'd done it. But Tony could feel it in his gut; they were wrong. Somehow...they were wrong.

The man in the pale yellow jumpsuit turned his head at the clinking sound of his cell as the barred door slid open. “You again,” he said, looking at Tony. “You keep coming back as if it'll change anything.” He looked back down at his hands in his lap.

Tony leaned back against the wall across from Maggi, and nodded to the guard, telling him he could leave. The guard acknowledged him and walked away. “Because I don't think you did it,” Tony told the prisoner.

Maggi scoffed a laugh, “Right. As if anyone believes my story. As if telling some...creature kidnapped me and then changed into someone that looked exactly like me, is admissible in court.”

“I believe you,” Tony told him. “But I need you to let me test something first.”

Maggi slowly looked up at him, brows knitted together in a mixture of confusion and skepticism. “What?”

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Do you want me to help you or not?” Tony cocked his head. 

Hesitantly, Maggi lifted his arm and held his hand out to Tony, who grabbed onto it and ran a slight gash down the middle of of the prisoner's palm. “Ow!” he yelled, yanking his bleeding hand back away. “What the hell?!”

“It's silver,” Tony told him with a smirk. “That means you're not the shifter.”

“The what?”

“You're lucky I'm on your case, pal. Not too many out there that would've given you the time of day with all the evidence he set you up with.” Maggi was rendered speechless; a glimmer of hesitant hope flashing in his eyes. “It's not gonna be easy convincing the authorities, but also lucky for you, we've got a really really good group of connections.”

Dean had, the night before, walked in on Tony watching a surveillance video of Maggi on his laptop. They had been discussing the case on and off, whenever it weighed on Tony's mind. So when the hunter caught the white flash in Maggi's eyes in the video, he knew what they were actually dealing with.

“Do me a favor,” Tony said, leaning over a bit so he could look Maggi in the eyes, “Don't get into any trouble this week. Be patient, and keep your mouth shut about this, or you'll go straight from here to an asylum instead of getting the hell out.”

“Oh my god...thank you. Thank you, Agent DiNozzo!” tears sprang into Maggi's eyes. “I can't tell you how much this means... that you believed me. Thank you...”

“Alright already. It's kinda my job, ya know,” Tony shook his head. “I had a feeling about you. Glad I was right, Tom. I'm gonna do what I can to make sure you can get on with your life.”

*~.~*

Sam closed up the laptop after having gone through half the files and photos in the hunt folder. From what he read, he found out who he'd been working for without his soul. And he wasn't happy about that at all. Working for Crowley? How messed up was he without his soul? Messed up enough not to tell Dean he was back...

“Find anything?” Dean came into the room with two beers, handing one to Sam.

“What? Oh!” Sam remembered he had been asked to try and track down the shifter that had taken Thomas Maggi's image. “I think he's still in the area,” Sam replied without reopening the computer. “But I need to head to the library; access some local papers. The online stuff doesn't have everything.”

“Okay. We'll head over in the morning, then.” Sam took the beer from Dean as he stood. “Think you could grab the laundry from the dryer? I'm gonna grab a quick shower.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam replied, a bit grateful to have the chance to himself for a moment. The pictures of the hunts were still fresh in his mind, and he didn't know how to look at his brother without the lingering feeling of shame. He set his beer down and headed out of the room.

Dean waited until he heard Sam's footsteps down the stairs, before hurrying to the laptop, pulling it out of hibernation mode, and dragging the hunt folder to the recycle bin. Then he right-clicked that bin and emptied it, just to be thorough, and closed the laptop again. Dean looked out the door to make sure Sam hadn't seen him, and then headed to the bathroom to take that shower...

*~.~*

As Dean came out of the steaming bathroom towel-drying his hair, he was confronted by Sam's not-so-thrilled stance. He was seated in front of his laptop, arms crossed in front of his chest, glaring at his brother.

“What's your problem?” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Did you touch my computer?” he asked, knowing the answer already. 

“I...” Dean looked like a deer in headlights.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam cocked his head, clearly annoyed. “You sent me downstairs so you could delete something off the desktop, and thought I wouldn't notice?”

“You don't understand.”

“I do understand,” Sam said, unfolding his arms and softening his tone. “I understand everything. Cas told me.”

“What?” Dean looked at him incredulously. 

“I asked. I wanted to know why everyone was being so secretive around me.”

“And he just...blabbed everything?” 

“I told him I already knew; that I was fuzzy about a few things and he should walk me through it.”

Dean shook his head. “Freaking child...” he said under his breath about the angel. “You can't go scratchin' at the wall like that, Sam,” Dean told him in a serious tone. “Getting the intel from Cas and lookin' through those files... Who knows what that'll do.”

“Well I'm fine,” Sam retorted. 

“Yeah well, maybe you lucked out this time. But I deleted that crap because I don't wanna know what'll happen if you keep at it.”

“Did you read them? Do you know what I did?” Sam looked at him with saddened, and maybe slightly horrified eyes.

“No. I don't wanna know. It doesn't matter.” He shook his head and turned to grab a shirt from the laundry basket.

“But some of the stuff I did...”

“I said it doesn't matter!” Dean said louder. “We just need to focus on this shifter business, right now.”

“So you're ready to hunt again? Give up what you've got here, so easily?”

“No,” Dean looked him in the eye. “It's just one hunt, Sam. One hunt, and we're back here. It'll be fine.”

“But there's somethin' going on. Something I was involved in, that we need to stop,” Sam kept on.

“I know all about the crap with Crowley,” Dean told him as he slipped his shirt on over his head. “He's Cas's problem. Not ours.”

“But I helped him...”

“No, you didn't. That wasn't you. And it sure as hell wasn't your fault. So unless Cas can't do it by his own feathery-ass self and asks us for help, it's not our problem. Got it?”

Sam was silent for a moment, before answering, “Fine.”

“Good. Now get some shut-eye. You'll need 'em for the library tomorrow,” he smirked.

“I'm not tired.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“No...no I'm...” Sam was suddenly unable to withhold a yawn. “Damnit.”

“Told ya,” Dean gave a smug look. 

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”


	15. Chapter 15

“It looks like he's been circling the area for months,” Sam told Dean as he scrolled through countless newspapers on the microform machine at the local library. “He's not stayed anywhere longer than a couple of weeks. But he's traveling the exact same pattern. If I'm right, he should be just east of Arlington right now.”

“It still amazes me that NASA hasn't managed to employ you,” Dean commented after taking a large bite from a stick of jerky. 

“I'd probably have to apply...?” Sam raised a brow.

“You don't apply to stuff like that, Sammy. They find you.”

“I'm pretty sure they don't,” he argued.

“Whatever, dude. Let's get outta here. I'm tired from all this research.”

“You've been sitting there staring at the librarian and eating gas station junk food all morning,” Sam narrowed his eyes as he collected his things. 

“Exactly,” Dean stood and stretched, ignoring the eye-roll Sam gave, and headed for the door. “What say we grab some lunch before we head to Arlington?”

“I think I'm stuffed from just watching you eat all that crap,” Sam replied as he followed behind him.

*~.~*

“You are late,” Ziva announced as Tony came into the bullpen with his backpack. 

“I had an out-of-town meeting,” he replied vaguely.

“Oh really?” Ziva narrowed her eyes, standing from her desk and walking over to his. “What was the meeting for?” she asked in a low voice.

“None of your business,” Tony replied in a similar tone, then plopped down into his chair. “Besides, I should've been back on time. The alarm on my phone decided not to go off. I'm just lucky I checked out of the hotel in time not to be charged an extra night.”

“Your meeting was yesterday?” Ziva asked.

Tony inwardly cringed. 

“Hey, Tony,” McGee bounded in the back entrance of the bullpen. “Abby's looking for you. Were you late?”

“Why don't you both say it a little louder,” Tony said with raised brows as he stood from his desk. “I don't think Gibbs heard you.”

“Oh I heard them,” Gibbs said, rounding the corner where the staircase met the floor. “Why are you late, DiNozzo?”

“Alarm didn't go off, boss,” it almost sounded like a question.

“Shoulda asked the front desk for a wake-up call,” Gibbs replied without looking at him, and simply headed for his desk.

Crap. He knows. “Ah...Boss, Abby's lookin' for me, apparently.”

“Yeah. Go on. I'll speak with you later.” 

Tony didn't like the sound of that...

*~.~*

“Abby!” Tony shouted over the loud music blasting in the lab.

“Tony!” she smiled and used the remote to lower the volume. “I wanna go see Sam tonight! They're back, right? 'Cause Ducky's back, and I know he went with them to Scotland. So I assume they're back, too. At least, that's what Ducky said, but not to disturb them just yet because it was a long flight and they needed their rest, and then of course I had to come to work, so-”

“Abs! Slow down,” Tony put his hands on her shoulders. 

“Sorry. I'm just...I'm so excited that he's actually back, and it's driving me nuts that I can't see him yet.”

“I know. And...I'm sorry, but they're working on something right now. So you might have to wait a bit longer.”

“Working on something? What? What do you mean? Are they...they're not hunting again already, are they? Sam just got back!”

“Remember that case I told you I was looking into?” Tony raised his brows, looking her squarely in the eyes.

“Yeah...”

“Well, it turns out I was right. And the reason...is something only the Winchesters can fix.”

“What?” she looked at him in question. But then her eyes widened. “Ooooh! Oh I get it. Awesome! Okay. What do I need to do?” 

Tony smiled, glad she knew exactly what he had on his mind. “First off, I haven't exactly...told Gibbs. But I've got a feeling he's on to me.”

“Lucky for you, you were right. Gibbs should be proud of your gut,” Abby smirked.

Tony frowned and looked down at his stomach, placing his hands over it, “I'm trying to get rid of it.” Abby giggled.

*~.~*

“What do you mean, 'you feel like you've done this'?” Dean asked his brother as they sat at a small table in an Arlington diner.

Sam's eyes darted around for a moment before replying, “I just...I had this feeling when we walked in here. Then I found this on the wall, near the restroom,” Sam handed him a 4x6 photo.

Dean took it, furrowing his brows as he looked it over. “This one of those places you can try and eat a 40oz steak and make the wall?” Dean asked as he looked at the man in the picture stuffing his face. “Who's this dude?”

“Doesn't matter,” Sam shook his head, “Look in the background.”

Dean looked back at the photo, slightly right of the big dude with a face full of whatever it was on his plate. Sure enough, that was a blurry, but undeniable Sam Winchester at the table behind him. His eyes darted up to meet his brother's, “So you were here. Doesn't mean anything.”

“It could mean I tried to catch this guy before,” Sam stated, though it was fairly clear that's what he'd been implying all along. 

“I dunno, Sammy. You're pretty beefed up here lately. Maybe you were here for the five-pound burger challenge,” he smirked.

Sam got a slightly annoyed look on his face, “Look at who's at the table with me.”

Dean looked down once more at the photo in his hand. Beside Sam, and barely noticeable unless you were looking for him, was the blurry image of a fairly large, bald man, almost as big as Sam. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“It's Samuel.”

“Come again?” Dean raised a brow.

“As in our grandfather.” Dean gave him an incredulous look, cocking his head to the side in disbelief. “He was brought back when I was,” Sam continued. “That much I found in the files. Which, had you not trashed them, we might've had a huge head-start on finding this shifter.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, tossing the picture on the table. “Absolutely not. You can't scratch at the wall, Sam. You have no idea how little it could take to knock it down. In fact, I'm callin' Tony in on this. You shouldn't even be workin' this, now.”

“Dean!” Sam protested.

“Don't argue with me! I just got you back, damn it!” Dean's eyes met those of his brother, and Sam saw the frustration in them. But also the concern and...fear. “I dunno why you didn't catch this guy, but it's not something Tony and I can't handle while you sit this one out.”

“So what, you're just gonna drive me back to Gibbs' place and leave me?”

“No. No reason to make that trip. You can stay at the hotel. Shouldn't take more than a couple days to take care of the problem.”

“And I'm supposed to do what, sit around watching daytime soaps? Come on, Dean, just let me help.”

“Not gonna happen, Sam.”

“But I might be able to remember-”

“That's the problem!” Dean shouted, then looked around to make sure he hadn't drawn attention to himself. Once he was satisfied they weren't being spied on, he met Sam's eyes again, “I can figure this out without you digging around the wall.” Dean's face softened, as well as his voice, “Please, Sammy. Don't fight me on this. I'm just tryin' to do what I'm supposed to. I'm tryin' to look out for you, here.”

Although still annoyed, Sam couldn't help but to understand. “Okay...fine,” he agreed. “I'll stay out of it.” Dean noticeably relaxed. “Figure I've got, like, an entire season of Dr. Sexy to catch up on, right?” he gave a sarcastic grin.

Dean suddenly got a faraway look on his face, before schooling what had begun to show through as devastation. 

“Dean?” Sam grew concerned.

“Dr. Sexy...was canceled, Sammy...” he told him.

Sam narrowed his eyes, torn between being annoyed by the unnecessary worry his brother had just brought him, and holding back giving him a hard time about his unhealthy love for the show. “I'm very sorry for your loss,” he decided on.

“You have no idea, Sam,” Dean shook his head. “The first six months or so, after you were gone...I barely kept it together some days.” Sam kept his mouth shut, and listened intently to his older brother's rare display of feelings. “Lucky for me, a case kept the guys at work most of that night; the night the station announced the end of the show. I completely lost it. It was like...the straw that broke the camel's back, ya know?” Sam wasn't even positive that Dean was aware he was talking out loud at this point. “I almost picked up the damn TV and threw it off the back porch. But then I realized Gibbs would probably be pissed if I did that. I was so angry, man. I was like a Lifetime movie, crying myself to sleep. All because some stupid show got canceled. I mean, I know it was more than that. But... Sonofabitch, what the hell am I talkin' about this for?”

“You'll always have Asian cartoon porn,” Sam said, trying to change the subject slightly before Dean completely receded from the idea of talking.

“It's called anime,” Dean corrected. “Actually, it's Hentai, but who cares, right?” he smirked. Sam shook his head, but had a slight smile on his face.

*~.~*

Tony had requested that Gibbs follow him to the conference room so he could explain what had been going on with the cold case. He'd told him everything, without getting any kind of response from the older man aside from a raised brow and a slightly tipped chin.

“I know you told me to drop it, boss,” Tony continued, “But my gut was churning, and I couldn't ignore it. I'm sorry if you're mad at me...”

“You were right,” Gibbs replied, finally. “So what now?”

“Dean wants me to meet up with him in Arlington,” Tony said after letting out a relieved breath. “Apparently, Sam had been after this...thing we're looking for while he was here without his...ya know...soul. Dean thinks that if he messes with this case, he could be messing with the wall. So he wants me to come fill in for him.”

“How long will you need?”

“Couple days, max. It's just under an hour away, so if we catch a big case, I can get back here-”

“This is kind of a big case, itself,” Gibbs interjected. “We'll make do if we need to. You just...be careful. No more getting yourself killed.”

“I'll do my best, boss,” Tony smirked.


	16. Chapter 16

So it turned out that Tony and Dean found the shifter the first day. It only took three hours to find the lair where he was camping out. Took maybe fifteen minutes to be ambushed, knocked out, and tied up by the shifter. Fortunately for them, it only took Sam one missed call to each of them, to realize things had gone south.

Sam knew right away when shifter-Dean came into the room. It was a moment of clarity in the creature's face, like he was surprised to see Sam before the silver bullet to its heart ended it's life. It only took a walk through the tunnels toward the lair for Sam to realize that it wasn't surprise to see him, but surprise that he was killing him.

The flashback was brief, yet clear. Sam and Samuel had been capturing monsters and bringing them to Crowley. This one hadn't been on the list, but they'd run into each other. Soulless Sam, for some reason, let him live. Like they'd had some sort of agreement, though Sam couldn't quite put together what that was.

He found and freed his brother and Tony, and they were now back at the hotel packing their things to leave. “That was risky, coming after us alone, Sam,” Dean said from his bed where he was shoving clothes into his bag.

“I saved your ass, Dean,” Sam argued. “Or let me guess; you had a plan.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Well, sorry. But shifter-you got here before you carried it out,” he retorted. “Lucky for you and your plan, I recognized him.”

“You recognized him?” Dean turned his head with an incredulous look on his face, to look at his brother. 

“He was surprised I was killing him,” Sam replied. “Apparently, we had some kind of deal going on. Unfortunately for him, I didn't remember about it till it was too late.”

“What do you mean, deal?”

“I'm not really sure. I don't remember much else about it.”

“You mean a deal you made as soulless-you?” Dean barked. 

“I couldn't help remembering it, Dean!” Sam argued. “It just came flooding back for a minute, when I was in the tunnels.”

“Guys,” Tony interjected, as he was done packing his go-bag, “Maybe you shouldn't talk about that anymore. No sense in tempting fate when you can help it.”

“He's right,” Dean told his brother. “Doesn't matter what the deal was. The douche-bag is a done deal. No sense thinkin' about it now.”

“But it had something to do with Crowley and Samuel,” Sam replied.

“Doesn't matter, Sam! We talked about this. No scratching. Now let's just get the hell out of here and never come back.”

Sam let out a resigned sigh, shoving a pair of jeans into his bag. “Okay,” he said. “You're right. It doesn't matter.” Dean glanced over, seeing that Sam wasn't being sarcastic, and was satisfied. He began to zip up his bag as he looked back down at it. “I guess we'll just...see what happens from here on out,” he continued. “Maybe it's not such a good idea to be-” his sentence cut off abruptly, followed by a loud crashing sound behind Dean.

Dean spun around to see his brother on the floor, seizing. “Sam!” he shot up from the bed and crossed the room, Tony right behind him dropping his bag where he'd been standing. “Sammy!” Dean wasn't sure what to do as his knees hit the floor beside Sam, and hovered over the quaking form. 

And then Sam stopped. Everything stopped. Sam was on his back, eyes open but looking at nothing. Dean couldn't even tell if he was breathing. “S-S-Sammy?” Dean realized his hands held fists full of Sam's jacket, and moved one of them to check for a pulse. 

“What just happened?” Tony asked from where he slightly paced beside them. Dean just shook his head. “I'm gonna call Ducky,” the agent told him, helpless as to what else he could do right then. The agent left the room and pulled out his phone.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean tried slightly shaking his younger brother, wanting to pull him out of whatever this was. He was terrified...not even wanting to accept the possibility that the wall had fallen; that his brother, whom he just got back, was gone again. “Sammy...”

Tony listened to the desperation in Dean's voice as he waited for the other line to pick up. It upped his own fear, just a little. 

“Doctor Mallard,” Ducky's voice sounded on the other line.

“Ducky, it's Tony.”

“Ah, Anthony! How is your side-case going?”

“I think we need you here,” he told him. 

Ducky must have sensed the emotion in the younger man's voice. “What's happened? What's wrong?”

“It's Sam. He...collapsed. I think he had a seizure or something. Ducky, he's just laying there now; staring dead ahead, like he's...” he couldn't finish the statement. 

“I understand. I'll try and leave here as soon as possible. I'll speak with Jethro.”

“What do we do until then?”

“Just sit tight; make sure he's still breathing, of course. If anything else should happen, you may need to call for more immediate assistance.” 

“I'll keep you updated. Thanks, Ducky.” Tony ended the call and quietly stepped back toward the brothers. Sam was still motionless, and Dean still beside him looking lost and distraught. It forced him to shove aside his own feelings for a moment and worry about the older Winchester. He slipped a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder as he sunk down to kneel beside him.

Dean turned his worried gaze to Tony momentarily, before looking back at Sam. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked the agent, near tears. “What am I supposed to do if this is it?” Tony didn't have an answer. Dean leaned forward, a bit closer to Sam again, and gripped his shirt in both hands. “Sam...” he tried once more.

And suddenly Sam was taking in a deep breath, eyes blinking. Dean had a spark of hope. “Sammy?” Sam met his brother's eyes, seeming a bit confused for a moment. “You with me?” 

Sam nodded. “Yeah...” he answered a bit breathlessly. 

“Come on,” Dean helped him up. “Let's get outta here.” The amount of relief that flooded both Dean and Tony was immeasurable. Not wanting to take any chances, or tempt any amount of fate, they fled the hotel room and the city, as if that were the heart of what could break Sam apart...

*~.~*

“Well, never mind,” Ducky told Gibbs as he ended the call back from Tony. “It seems Sam has managed to come out of...whatever he was in, for the moment. I'll stop by this evening and take a look at him.”

“They're done in Arlington, then?” Gibbs inquired.

“Apparently they're headed back this way, finished or not,” the M.E told him. “Perhaps,” Ducky said, pausing and turning back to Gibbs, “Whatever happened there will deter young Sam from wanting to go on anymore hunts...”

*~.~*

One week later...

The Winchester brothers had gladly resumed their break from hunting. Dean continued working at the garage, while Sam took on a barkeeper position in a pub that was conveniently across the road from where Dean worked. Their plan was to save up enough to maybe get a small apartment, and get out of Gibbs' way, though the older man insisted it was fine if they wanted to continue staying with him.

For Dean, it felt like he was in the way, though that really wasn't the case. He and Sam were a huge help to Gibbs, not to mention the rest of the team. Sam was always unintentionally assisting on cases, and Dean had this nurturing quality about him that perhaps he wasn't even aware of. Everything flowed so nicely with the two of them around. 

It was like some kind of blessing, having this 'normal' life. Though Dean often felt restless, as his entire life before the past year had programmed him, being out of the hunting life felt nice with Sam around. And Sam had always wanted some kind of normalcy, though he'd given up on it long ago. Even with this strange wall up in his head, it felt okay. Life with the NCIS team as their major source of family was pretty damn nice. It was almost too good to be true...

...And then, suddenly, it was.

The Winchesters and the team were having dinner together at Gibbs' house. A barbeque, to be specific. Even Ducky, Palmer and Abby were there. It was the reunion event they'd not had time for since Sam's return. Dean and Gibbs were taking turns manning the grill, which Abby and Ziva prepared side dishes in the kitchen, soliciting Sam's help, and McGee, Tony and Palmer were busy setting up a volleyball net that, at first, they'd thought a bit silly for Palmer to have brought along. But as they set it up, they couldn't help but to admit it sounded like fun.

Ducky was telling a story as he set plates and utensils on the table they'd brought outside for the afternoon. Gibbs and Dean were trying hard to listen to it, and sharing brief, subtle smirks whenever Ducky turned his head. 

It was the telltale sound of fluttering wings behind him that set Dean's nerves a bit on edge. But he refused to allow himself to think the worst of it. Instead, he turned around as the rest of them fell silent, and saw the angel a couple of feet away looking directly at him with some level of concern. 

“Hey, Cas!” he pasted on a carefree smile as he greeted the angel. “You're just in time for the party. Why don't ya pull up a chair and join us?”

The angel looked around at the rest of them, feeling a bit sheepish, perhaps. Or maybe he sensed that this wasn't the best time for asking a favor of his friend. He allowed himself a moment to think before responding. “If it...wouldn't be too much trouble. Of course I'd like to join you in your festivities.”

“Great!” Dean let out a breath, thinking maybe...just maybe everything was okay after all. “I'm guessing you'll want a burger,” he turned back around to face the grill.

“It's not required,” Castiel replied, then thought about it for a moment. “But I'll accept one nonetheless. Perhaps my vessel would be grateful.”

“That's the spirit,” Dean said, still facing away from him. 

Gibbs watched as Castiel awkwardly sank into a chair beside the table. Then the lead agent turned back to face the grill, “Everything okay?” he quietly asked Dean. “You seem a bit tense.”

“Everything's fine,” Dean gave him a tight smile. “You want cheese on yours, Gibbs?” he glanced at him. 

Gibbs gave him a slight nod, appraising the man beside him. He could see it in Dean's eyes; the edge of worry. It didn't sit well with his gut. But he could also tell that Dean wanted this get-together to continue. He glanced casually at the others who had gone back to their work, and paused on Sam who seemed to be a bit preoccupied with thoughts of what Castiel might be there for. But the younger Winchester seemed just as determined for the day to keep going as planned. Gibbs would see to it that it did.

The sun started to set before the angel became noticeably growing in impatience. He was fidgety. And that alone made Dean worry about what must be going on that Castiel needed to talk to them about. So as the rest of them began cleaning up, Dean decided to approach the angel.

“Alright, Cas, come on,” he took his arm and started toward the house. “Whatever reason you came to talk to me, let's hear it.”

“The war in Heaven has gotten...out of my control,” he told him. “Crowley decided that Sam leaving was my betrayal. I suppose he is right, but I had not counted on him putting this together so quickly.”

“What's this got to do with anything?”

“He decided to go to Raphael,” Castiel explained. That caused Dean's brows to raise. “Dean, if Crowley successfully finds purgatory and collects those souls for Raphael's use...it will be the end. Of everything...”


	17. Chapter 17

“So basically,” Dean explained to Sam, though Gibbs, McGee and Tony were also inside cleaning up, and therefore could hear the conversation, “He needs us to help find it, before they do.”

“But that's exactly what you just pulled me out of, Dean,” Sam protested. “What they're doing to try and find it, it's dangerous. Not to mention inhumane.” 

“Those things aren't human, Sam.”

“It doesn't matter, does it? Besides, it's cutting it pretty close to scratching the wall, if anything is.”

“This is true, which is why you and I are gonna focus on leading Crowley off the trail. I told Cas to get Bobby in on the help-interrogate-the-monster crap. He seemed to do pretty okay getting the info outta that demon to find Crowley's bones, after all.”

Sam nodded, though he felt uneasy about it, “That's probably our best bet, then.”

“We'll take it easy, Sam. Anything starts looking too familiar, we bail.”

“Anything we can do to help?” Gibbs asked, Tony and McGee slowly joining beside him.

The brothers looked over at them thoughtfully. Dean pondered for a moment, and then came to a realization. “Actually...” he said, and Sam looked at him curiously. “You up for a little replay?”

“Replay?” McGee asked.

“Holing up together, here,” Dean elaborated. “We're gonna have to demon-proof this house. And angel-proof,” he said, glancing to Sam. 

“But why?” Tony inquired.

“If Crowley wants to hit home for us, he might come after any of you. I'm sure if he's been keeping any tabs, he'll be able to figure out where I've been and who I've been associating with. I don't want anything to happen to any of you.”

“So you want us to hide,” Gibbs surmised.

“We want you to stay alive,” Dean countered. “Trust me, if we end up needing you on this, we'll let you know. But in the meantime, it'd be a huge help if I didn't have to worry about them using you against us. Please, Gibbs,” Dean took a step toward him, looking at him pleadingly. “It's bad enough I've gotta risk takin' Sam out like this again, or that we've gotta do this at all. You don't understand what they can do; what they will do to you if they think it'll get us off their case. I need you to trust me.”

Gibbs looked into Dean's eyes, not needing convincing to trust the younger man at all, really. But convincing them to let them help perhaps was a lost cause at this point. If it would help them, to stay safe, then he could do that for now. He nodded to Dean, and watched the relief form on his face. 

*~.~*

It'd been four days. The NCIS team had stayed careful, reliving their routine from years ago with the Winchesters, going in to work in teams, and anywhere they'd have to leave Gibbs' house, in the same fashion. It had been uneventful, and at times tedious. But all in all, it wasn't so horrible. In fact, he wouldn't admit to it, but Gibbs was sort of enjoying having the team all under his roof again. It ensured that he knew they were getting the proper amount of sleep, and not getting involved in things they shouldn't. Not that he thought they would. But you can't always help what thoughts creep into the back of your mind late at night.

Every night, usually around midnight, Dean would call to let Gibbs know that they were okay, and to make sure the same was true on their end. It was now nearing 0100 hours, and Gibbs sat a bit anxiously on the edge of the couch, checking and rechecking his phone to make sure the ringer was working. The rest of the team, he thought, had gone back to bed. But Tony was suddenly in the entryway to the living room, looking over at his boss with concern.

“Still hasn't called?” the younger asked. Gibbs shook his head, only sparing Tony a short glance. Tony could clearly see the nerves working under Gibbs' skin. As he made his way to the armchair across from the older man, the thought crossed through his mind that the Winchesters brought out this extreme fatherly mode in Gibbs. One he had for Tony as well, but never let it show too much, perhaps simply because of the professional necessity that overlapped it. 

“You should be sleeping,” Gibbs told him, now meeting his eyes as Tony sat in the chair. “Ya look like hell. Was a long day, today.”

“Yeah, well. Call me crazy, but I'd sleep a lot better if I knew everything was okay with Sam and Dean.”

Gibbs couldn't argue with that. Nor did he have the time to as his phone suddenly chirped to life. He was quick to answer. “Gibbs.”

“Hey,” Dean's voice sounded on the other line. “Sorry it took so long tonight. Things are...well, they've taken a slight turn into crazy-town.”

“What's going on?” Gibbs asked, eyes narrowed.

“Bobby's come to the conclusion that this whole idea of opening a door to purgatory is a horrible idea. We're starting to think this might be a bit more dangerous than Cas might've been led to believe.”

“Have you talked to him about it?” he asked, glancing for a moment to Tony, who seemed slightly worried at the conversation he could hear fairly well in the quiet house.

“Yeah. But he seems to think he's got everything under control. Hell, we even tried offering to help try and find another way to handle all of this, but he's not budging. Think he might even be angry with us.”

“So what now? You gonna stop helping him?”

“We're not helping to find purgatory,” Dean replied. “But we're gonna keep trying to find another way. Raphael needs to be stopped; that much is still true. We've just gotta convince Cas that there's a safer way. Assuming there is one...”

“You need help?” Gibbs asked.

“Probably,” he replied truthfully. “But to be honest, we've got no idea where to even start at this point. We're gonna keep up with leading Crowley off the trail, and Bobby's looking into alternative methods for Cas. Ya know...maybe it'd be a good idea if Bobby came up here. Closer to the action, ya know? Would you mind that? Then maybe he'd be able to get some help from you guys...”

“That'd be fine. He knows he's welcome here. Would be nice to catch up with him, anyway.”

“Great. I'll get on the horn with him. He'll probably be able to make it to you within a couple days.”

“Give him the number. Tell him to call when he's close so someone's here to let him in.”

“Will do. Thanks, Gibbs. I'll talk to you tomorrow night.”

“Get some sleep, Dean.”

“You too.”

The call ended and Gibbs looked to Tony again. The younger man seemed just as worried about the current situation as he was...

*~.~*

A couple of weeks had gone by with no change in the situation, and no alternative fathomable for Castiel to use to stop Raphael. Even with the help of the several extra pairs of eyes provided by the NCIS team, Bobby hadn't been able to come up with anything feasible. 

Dean's calls to Gibbs had become increasingly worrisome, as Castiel seemed to grow more and more impatient with the Winchesters' attempts to downgrade his plans instead of assist him. Tonight's call, however, had made Gibbs' nerves crawl.

“He said that Castiel wanted them to stop attempting to deter him from his path,” Gibbs explained to his team and Bobby as they sat at the table having a beer, “Or he'd stop them, himself.”

“What do you think that means?” Tony asked worriedly. “You think he'd...kill them?”

“I don't think Cas would kill them,” Bobby shook his head, though worried himself. “It'd be just as easy to send them to Bermuda, as anything.” 

“Or try and come after one of us,” Gibbs said, looking around at his team. 

“We're safe here though, right? Even from Cas?” McGee asked.

“Yeah,” Tony answered. “But we can't stay in here forever. Just gonna have to be more careful.”

Gibbs took a long drag from his beer, casually glancing at each of his agents as they began talking amongst themselves. He hadn't been so much worried about them as he had Sam and Dean, up until this point. Now...well, now he didn't really feel like sleep was going to come very soon.

*~.~*

A little over a week later, Dean's call came a lot earlier than normal. It was only after three in the afternoon when Gibbs' cell rang as he and his team were in the bullpen going over cold case files. For some reason, the ringing stirred something in Tony's gut, and he looked up from his paperwork and over at Gibbs as the older man looked at the caller ID. When he glanced up at Tony before answering, Tony had a strong feeling his gut was right. “Dean, everything okay?” Gibbs asked in a bit of a hushed tone. At first, there was no reply on the other line, and Gibbs narrowed his eyes, pushing from his desk at the instinct that the kid might be in trouble. “Dean? Talk to me...” he stood and made his way out of the bullpen and around the staircase. Tony followed.

“Gibbs...” Dean's voice cracked, sounding vulnerable and scared.

The senior agent feared the worst, “What happened?”

“It's Sam... Cas...he uh...he made the wall fall. Gibbs, he knocked down Sammy's wall, and he's unconscious. I can't wake him up. I... I dunno what to do. What do I do?”

Gibbs swallowed down the bubble of anger long enough to be rational for Dean. “Where are you?” he asked. Dean told him. “You wait there. We're coming to get you. You don't move from there, got it? And if you have to, you call me right away. You hear me, Dean?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replied.

“Give me twenty. I'm gonna clear the team, and we're gonna head outta here, asap.” 

“Yes, sir,” Dean repeated, voice cracking again. 

Gibbs ended the call and looked to Tony. “Get the team ready to leave. Get McGee and Ziva to take Duck and Abs back to my place and wait for us there.”

“Boss?” Tony looked at him in question.

“You're coming with me. But first I need to clear us all with Vance; get us all cleared to leave for the day at least. I'll explain in the car,” he told him, then turned and quickly headed up the staircase toward Vance's office.

Tony swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, and turned back toward the bullpen where McGee and Ziva were eagerly awaiting news. “Get Abs and Ducky,” Tony told them. “Gibbs wants you all to head back to the house and wait for us there.”

“What is happening?” Ziva asked.

“I'm not sure,” Tony replied, raising his brows. “But it doesn't sound good.”

“Is Dean okay?” McGee asked.

“Gibbs hasn't told me anything yet. Just to get you going. But I'll let you know, okay? Just...just go.”

The agents nodded, though confused, and went back to their desks to shut down their computers before they set out toward the back elevator. Tony turned and shut down Gibbs' computer before going to his own to do the same. He gathered his things, and waited for Gibbs to come back down...


	18. Chapter 18

“C'mon, Sammy,” Dean's voice shook as he hovered over his motionless brother who laid on his side on the ground, unmoved from how he'd simply crumbled there when the angel touched his temple. Dean had only removed his jacket, rolled it up, and put it under Sam's head. But he hadn't moved him. Not except taking his limp hand into his own, hoping to wake him; hoping that maybe Castiel hadn't been successful. 

Dean couldn't think. There was a reason this happened, and they'd known they were at some risk, continuing to try and stop the whole purgatory thing. He knew that it was still necessary to keep trying, maybe even more so now that Sam had become basically a casualty in their war. But Dean couldn't think. He didn't want to. Even though he knew he owed it to Sam to keep going, right now he couldn't fathom a damned thing.

The screeching of tires somewhere nearby pulled Dean only slightly from wherever his mind had started wandering off to. It wasn't until there was a hand on his shoulder that he realized someone was there. But he was grateful that he'd instinctively schooled his emotions, not allowing anything to boil over in his panic there alone.

“Dean,” Tony was crouched beside him, and when Dean met his eyes he saw concern and empathy. “Let's get you both home, okay?” Dean nodded mutely in reply. 

Within minutes, he found himself in the backseat of the Charger, Sam draped across his lap as he held onto him securely. 

“Dean?” Gibbs called, and Dean looked up and caught his eyes in the rear view mirror. “Where's your car?”

“Around the corner,” he answered quietly, then looked back down at Sam. 

In what seemed like mere moments, there was a hand on his arm, and he looked up at Tony who was turned around in the passenger seat. They'd clearly driven around the block and were pulled up in front of the Impala. “I can drive her back to the house for you,” Tony told him. “Just need your keys.” 

Dean gave an almost imperceptible nod, reaching into his jacket that was draped over Sam's side now, and grabbing the set of keys, before handing them, trustingly, to Tony. Tony took them, sparing another sympathetic glance at the younger man who was looking down at his brother again, before glancing to Gibbs for a moment, and then got out of the car.

Once Tony started up the Impala, Gibbs pulled the car out and began heading back toward the house. Intermittently glancing at Dean in the rear view, he noted the renewed lost look in the older Winchester's face. It was one he hadn't seen at this level of intensity in quite a while. It had been months since he'd seen him look so devastated, and it broke his heart to see him like this again.

“Why...” Dean's voice sounded, frail and broken. Gibbs looked again in the mirror to see Dean looking at him. “Why would Cas do this to Sam? To me?” Gibbs swallowed the lump in his throat and shook his head, not having an answer for him. He watched as Dean's face finally crumbled, and he pulled Sam to his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed a tear to stream down his cheek without caring who saw...

*~.~*

“What do we do, now?” Abby asked in a sullen, quiet voice, so unlike her personality, as they all sat in the living room allowing Dean time with his brother in the guest room.

“We wait for Dean to tell us how to help,” was the only thing Gibbs knew to answer with. Then he looked to Bobby who, of all of them, might have some insight on what that might be.

“Don't look at me,” the oldest hunter said. “It's my fault this happened. Had I known Cas was so far gone; that he'd been working with Crowley so long that he couldn't see past what was goin' on, and listen to Dean, I wouldn't have suggested tryin' to fight him on this.”

“This wasn't your fault,” McGee told him, before the others had a chance to. “You couldn't have predicted the way Castiel responded to all this. None of us would've thought he'd do something like this...”

“He's right,” Tony added. “And you were only trying to do what was right. What good would it have done to play along, when you know something really bad could happen?”

“Something bad did happen,” Ziva interjected.

“Bad to the world, Ziva,” Tony retorted. “This...what happened to Sam...” he looked over at Bobby, “This can be fixed again, right?”

“Dean said that Cas told him if he backed off, when it was all over, he'd fix 'im,” the hunter replied.

“Can we trust him to follow through on that?” Gibbs asked.

“After what he's done,” Tony said, “That's a pretty good question.”

“Guess there's only one way to find out,” Bobby supplied. “And I'm not so sure Dean's gonna follow through on that...”

*~.~*

Dean had the side of a chair pressed right up against the bed where Sam lay, still unconscious. His arm draped alongside his brother's where he faced him, and held onto him at the crook of his elbow as he looked pleading and devastated at the expressionless face of the youngest Winchester.

“I'm so sorry, Sam,” Dean whispered, because his voice no longer wanted to cooperate with him. “I'm gonna get you better. I'll find a way to fix you. Soon as things cool down with Cas...” he swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat at the mention of the angel's name. “Soon as things cool down, I'm sure we'll be able to fix this. Just...just please hang on, Sam. Whatever's goin' on in there; please hang on.” His hand squeezed at Sam's arm, begging for some kind of reaction; some kind of acknowledgment that he'd been heard.

“C'mon, Sammy,” he spoke, voice cracking like he knew it would. “Please...” he waited, but no motion showed itself. Defeated, Dean pulled his arm away as he hunched over, burying his face in his hands as his elbows hit his knees. He let out a long breath, trying not to shut down right along side his brother. Sam was depending on him now. He wasn't going to let him down. He couldn't...

Pushing up out of the chair, Dean took in a huge breath, then moved the chair back against the wall. Sudden movement out of the corner of his eye made him look back over at Sam. But it didn't look like Sam was waking. It looked more like he was seizing again. “Sam?” Dean rushed back to his side, sitting partly on the edge of the bed beside him, and took hold of Sam's flailing arm. And suddenly, the seizing was over and Sam was limp on the bed again. “Sam?” he called out once more, to no avail. 

This was pointless. There was nothing he could do from here. He was down a man, and if they couldn't fight them before, he sure as hell couldn't by himself, now. But there were seven people in the other room that were willing to help him. This was something he needed to take into consideration. He'd wanted to protect them. Maybe this was the only way how...

Determined, Dean pushed away from his brother's bedside and stalked out into the living room. All eyes were on him, as though they were shocked to see him standing there. “I need your help,” he told them. “Raphael still needs to be stopped. Cas still doesn't understand what he's doing,” he said, pacing back and forth between the room. “I know I said I wanted to keep you all here and safe, but if we let Raphael get his hands on purgatory...well, that'd be bad. Apocalyptic bad. This house would be about as useful as Noah's Ark during a volcanic slide of molten lava.”   
He slowed and took a moment to look around the room, meeting each set of eyes. “Now, once upon a time, we were kinda Castiel's army. If anything, Cas needs us now, more than ever. He's been brainwashed or reprogrammed or something. And he's gonna end up getting us all killed, if not just himself.   
“Sam is trapped back inside Hell...or what he knows of it in his head,” Dean tried not to let his voice shake at the admission. “So I need some help, if you're willing to give it. We've gotta stop purgatory from being opened, and we've gotta end Raphael. There's one thing neither angel took into consideration in all of this,” he told them. “Sam enlisted Balthazar's help; another angel. We needed a middle-man between us and Cas. Someone who was just as concerned as we are, but could convince Cas that he was actually working to help him. He got found out,” Dean stopped pacing, and his eyes darted about on the floor with some regret. “Cas killed him. But not before Balthazar gave me this,” he reached into his jacket's inner compartment and pulled out a long, silver object.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

“It's a sword. But not just any; it can kill an angel. And this is how we'll take out Raphael, if we can get close enough.”

“And if we can't?” Gibbs asked, narrowing his eyes.

“If we can't,” Dean met his eyes, then shook his head; a light, sad smile washing his features, “Then we're all as good as dead anyway.” The room quieted, and they all seemed deep in contemplation. But Dean grew impatient, needing more than anything to get out there and find a way to fix everything; to fix Sam. “C'mon, guys... I don't think I can do this without you.” His gaze found its way over to Tony. And after a moment, Tony overcame his feeling of dread, and stood up. Dean realized that this was the equivalent of raising his hand and calling “in”. 

“We were a pretty damn good team, back in the day,” Tony said to them all, yet didn't look away from Dean.

Then Gibbs was standing, as well as Abby and McGee, then Ducky and Ziva. Dean felt an overwhelming feeling of pride in his friends. And then he turned to Bobby. The oldest hunter looked at him strangely for a moment, and then briefly around the room before raising his brows and meeting Dean's eyes, “Didn't realize I had a choice in the matter,” he said before pushing himself up to stand. “As if it was ever a question.”

So there they stood. Each of them prepared for a battle they had no idea how to fight, yet each knew the stakes. They needed to help Sam, and in turn, Dean. But not just that anymore. A recycled Castiel's army stood ready to try to save the world...


	19. Chapter 19

Ducky and Abby kept watch over Sam as the team headed out with Dean and Bobby at nightfall. Bobby had discovered where Crowley had been torturing the monsters, and where they were likely going to try and open Purgatory; this being the only night they could do it, because of the eclipse. So that's where they were heading. 

Sam was fighting a battle within his own mind. He'd awoken there, not knowing who he was. But then came upon his soulless self and had to battle him. Or rather defeat him, so that he could rejoin that part of him. It was, after all, a part of him; part that had been hidden behind the wall. Part he was not proud of. Yet still a part of him, even though it had been separated from its soul for so long that it did not know any other way. 

Once he'd collected that part of himself, he remembered everything he'd done; everyone he'd hurt. But still, he had someone else to find there within his mind; the part of him that remembered Hell. That part of him, once he'd discovered his whereabouts, had no fight within him. He merely existed still, as if being kept alive was yet another form of Hell in itself. He willingly gave himself over to Sam; though he cautioned that Sam wouldn't be able to handle it. But Sam knew...he wasn't sure how, but he knew the only way out of the prison that was currently his mind, was to do this. He had to finish. He had to get out of there...

*~.~*

Forcing the agents to wait outside of the room until they required backup, Bobby and Dean attempted to stealthily enter without alerting Crowley and Raphael. The angel and demon in question stood before a bloody symbol on the far wall down the stairs; Crowley reciting the words that would open the door to Purgatory. 

Dean feared they were running out of time for certain, and could think of only one thing to try. He pulled out Balthazar's sword and silently took aim before throwing it toward Raphael's neck. If he could take out the angel, the demon would be less of a problem. But the question remained; where was Castiel?

The sword flew through the air toward Raphael. For a moment, Dean thought he might be lucky after all. But at the last second, the angel moved from its path and caught the sword in the female vessel's dark hand. Dean tensed, as did Bobby, as the two villains turned around, pausing in their ritual. 

Crowley flicked his hand, sending Bobby flying down the stairs and Dean toppling over the railing, plummeting into a table before hitting the ground with a grunt. The hunters were out of commission for the moment, and Crowley and Raphael turned back to their task. 

Once completing the words, they stood expecting something to happen. But nothing did. “Maybe I said it wrong,” Crowley told Raphael.

“No,” Castiel's voice sounded behind them, and they turned around. “You said it perfectly. You simply lacked the means in which to carry it out.” Dean and Bobby regained their composure, standing up from the floor as they looked to Castiel.

“Ah, I see,” Crowley said, glancing at the jar in Castiel's possession. “So we've been working with...” he went to the wall, swiping a bit of the blood from it, and brought it to his lips to taste it. “Right. Dog blood.”

“Give us the blood, Castiel,” Raphael demanded.

“You idiot,” Crowley told Raphael. “There is no blood. He's already performed the ritual himself.” Raphael narrowed his vessel's eyes, looking back to Castiel. “So then, how did it go?” Crowley asked him.

Castiel gave a small smirk, then closed his eyes. His entire body began to glow, emanating a brilliant light that caused them all the need to shield their eyes. When it finally dimmed down to nothing once more, they looked at him in awe. Dean looked worriedly at him from off to the side.

“You can't imagine what it's like,” Castiel told them. “They're all inside me. Millions upon millions of souls.”

“Sounds sexy,” the demon said. “Exit stage, Crowley.” And suddenly the demon vanished from their sight. Raphael looked to the empty space Crowley had taken up moments before and was suddenly panicked, since he, too, was attempting to escape, but could not.

“Now, what's the matter, Raphael?” Castiel asked knowingly. “Somebody clip your wings?”

“Castiel, please,” he replied. “You let the demon go, but not your own brother?”

“The demon, I have plans for. You, on the other hand,” he raised his hand beside him, and Raphael's eyes widened just before Castiel snapped his fingers and the female vessel exploded in a bloody mess of dissolved flesh and bone. Castiel turned to look at Dean. “So you see...I saved you,” he walked away from them, standing where his brother had dropped Balthazar's sword. 

“Sure thing, Cas,” Dean said. “Thank you...” he couldn't help but be a bit afraid of his angel friend.

“You doubted me; fought against me. But I was right all along,” he turned to face him.

“Okay, Cas, you were. We're sorry. Now, let's just defuse you, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Castiel looked slightly amused.

“You're full of nuke,” Dean replied. “You're not safe. So before the eclipse ends, let's get those souls back to where they belong.”

“They belong with me,” Castiel replied unconcerned. 

“No, it's scrambling your brain,” Dean argued.

“I'm not finished yet,” Castiel shook his head. “Raphael had many followers, and I must...punish them all severely.”

Dean felt sickened by Castiel's words, mostly because of whom they were coming from. This wasn't like Castiel. This wasn't the angel he knew and loved. “You listen to me,” Dean said, bravely stepping forward, now determined to do whatever it took to get his friend back; unconcerned with his own life at this point. “Listen... I know there's a lot of bad water under the bridge, but we were family once. I'd have died for you. Almost did a few times. If that means anything to you, please... I've lost Sam. Don't make me lose you, too.” Castiel looked down and a bit to the side, seemingly considering Dean's plea. “You don't need this kinda juice anymore, Cas. Get rid of it before it kills us all.”

The angel was silent a moment longer. “You're just saying that because I won,” he said, looking back up at Dean. “Because you're afraid. You're not my family, Dean. I have no family.” In that moment, Balthazar's sword was thrust into his back; Dean and Bobby looked to see Tony as he backed away from his task, waiting for it to have worked. But Castiel simply reached back and pulled the weapon from his body.   
“I'm glad you could make it, Tony,” he told him calmly. “But the sword won't work because I'm not an angel anymore. I'm your new god. A better one.” Dean looked, panicked, to Tony and Bobby, and back to Castiel. “So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your lord. Or I shall destroy you...”


	20. Chapter 20

Dean, Sam and Tony all stood, unsure exactly of what to do. But then Bobby spoke, “Alright...” he got down on his knees. “Is this good, or...do want the whole forehead-to-the-carpet thing?” Dean stood a bit frozen until Bobby nudged him and looked at Tony, “Guys...” The other two men started to lower themselves to their knees. 

But Castiel frowned and shook his head, “Stop.” Dean looked up at him. “What's the point if you don't mean it? You fear me. Not love, not respect. Just fear.”

“Cas-” Tony stepped forward in a last-stitch effort to reason with him.

“Tony, you have nothing to say to me,” Castiel looked to him. “You've stabbed me in the back.” Tony swallowed and backed up a step. Castiel looked to Bobby. “Get up.”

“Cas, come on,” Dean pleaded. “This is not you.”

“The Castiel you knew is gone,” he told him.

“So what then? Kill us?” Dean asked.

“What a brave little ant you are,” Castiel slightly grinned. “You know you're powerless; you wouldn't dare move against me again. That would be pointless. So I have no need to kill you. Not now. Besides, he smirked, “Once, you were my favorite pets; before you turned and bit me.”

“Who are you?” Dean asked.

“I am God.” The men shared a worried glance. “And if you stay in your place, you may live in my kingdom. If you rise up, I will strike you down.”

“You said you would fix Sam. You promised,” Dean pleaded, thinking of his brother.

“If you stood down, which you didn't,” Castiel replied. “Be thankful for my mercy. I could have cast him back in the Pit.”

“Cas, come on, this is nuts! You can turn this around! Please!”

“I hope for your sake, this is the last you see me.” And with that, Castiel was gone.

Dean looked helplessly from Bobby to Tony. 

“I'm sorry...” Tony told him, looking shocked. “I...thought...”

“You didn't do anything wrong,” Dean told him. “That should've worked. But apparently...”

“Apparently, we've got a bigger problem than we'd even thought,” Bobby finished for him. 

“What do we do now?” Tony asked. Dean shook his head, not having an answer for him just yet. Tony's cell vibrated in his pocket, distracting him for a moment, and he pulled it out to glance at the screen. When he read the text, he looked up at Dean again. “Sam's awake,” he told him with some sense of hope. Dean's eyes widened...

*~.~*

Castiel walked in the field in Heaven, surrounded by the angels that had followed Raphael and stood against him. They were now dead; littering the ground like fallen birds with spread wings. He had had a speech planned in his head; a warning to the rest of his brothers. But now, only Dean's words played back in his head. As though a delayed reaction to the intensity of them, after having allowed himself the time to wind down from being so internally angry at him. 

“We were family once. I'd have died for you. Almost did a few times. If that means anything to you, please... I've lost Sam. Don't make me lose you, too.”

Perhaps Dean had been right. He had defeated Raphael. That's all that had mattered, really. And now he'd gone and slaughtered many of his brothers; a thought, after the fact, that they might have followed simply out of fear... What had he done?

These souls; this power...it was dangerous. It was consuming him, and he'd been a fool not to keep Dean's concerns in mind. Yes, it had been necessary to obtain them to rid of Raphael. Dean wouldn't have been persuaded in that direction. But maybe he'd been too harsh to completely push him away like he had.

He needed help...

*~.~*

“Where is he?” Dean asked nervously as he entered the house with the team.

“I had to administer a bit of lorazepam,” Ducky told him. “He's in the bedroom, but give me a moment to explain what's happened,” he put a hand on the older Winchester's arm. Dean stilled, swallowing a lump in his throat, and the rest of them stood around them to hear the update. “When he first woke, he seemed upset; as if he were sensing what the lot of you were up to and wanted to leave to help. When we told him you were well accompanied, he seemed to absorb that news with acceptance. But--”

“But?” Dean's brows rose.

“But,” Ducky repeated, “Apparently, whatever resolve he'd had before then seemed to leave him; as if he'd been clinging to whatever thread of strength he had in order to get to you. Once he felt he wasn't needed, it was as if he let go of it. Or perhaps...gave in to the strength of whatever was pushing at him.”

“What happened to him?” Dean asked. “I mean...is he unconscious again?”

“On the contrary, he seems to be suffering some severe post traumatic stress disorder,” Ducky told him, grimly. “The flashbacks are so powerful there's not much we can do to ground him; bring him out of them. That's why I gave him something. I felt it might ease his suffering.”

“I need to help him,” Dean said, pushing past the doctor.

“Abigail is with him, if only to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He doesn't seem accepting of assistance at the moment.”

Dean only barely registered Ducky's words as he quickly entered the room where Sam was sitting back against the headboard, knees pulled tightly to his chest, and hands buried in his hair, pulling at it. Abby looked up from the chair next to the bed, tears streaming down her face, but looking hopeful now that Dean was there; as if he could make any difference. She stood and left the room as though relieved she didn't have to stay and witness the horrors any longer.

“Sammy?” Dean said as he approached the side of the bed. 

“Dean-” came out in a broken sob, and Dean hadn't expected a response at all, really. So he was surprised, and sat on the edge of the bed beside Sam.

“Sam... Talk to me,” he pleaded.

Sam slowly picked his head up, hands falling limply to his knees, and eyes seeking out his brother as if he hadn't been convinced by sound alone. “Dean?” 

“Yeah, it's me. You okay?” What a stupid question, he chided himself.

Sam's body, already tense, began to straighten; a look of pure and difficult concentration taking over the younger brother's face. “Cas?”

“He's not gonna help us,” Dean replied.

“You...okay?” Sam seemed to struggle to speak.

“I'm fine, Sam. Worried about you. The drugs Ducky gave you, they helping?”

“Little.” Sam's features kept twitching, morphing in and out of fear, struggle, torment, and back to concentration. And Dean suddenly understood what was happening.

He moved more onto the bed toward Sam and looked him in the eyes. “Whatever you're seein',” he told him, “It ain't real, Sammy. It ain't happening now. I know it's scary, and I know you're tryin' to play off that you can handle it on your own; like you don't want me to think you're weak or something. But damnit, Sammy... you don't have to pretend it's okay,” his voice shook, and his eyes stung. “I want you to fight it. But don't pretend, Sam...” he placed a hand over one of Sam's.

And suddenly Sam's breathing came in bursts of near-hyperventilation; tears dripping down his cheeks as if they'd only been held in by pure will before. His face morphed back into anguish and stayed there, though he didn't turn away from his brother.

“It's okay, Sam,” Dean told him, unable to hold back his own tears, devastated by his little brother's current state. “I'm gonna help you get through this.” He looked down at his hand when he felt Sam's shift beneath his. Sam's hand fell from his knee and he reached beside him, looking to Dean's chest, and grabbed onto the material of his shirt with a weak fist. Dean met Sam's eyes just as the younger's looked back up to his face. Instinctively, Dean moved his own hand from Sam's knee to where his shoulder met his neck, and suddenly Sam was moving forward. His head slowly diving to rest, buried in Dean's chest, and his other hand twisting into Dean's jacket.

Dean's heart broke just a little more, and his hand moved up into Sam's hair as he wrapped his other arm around Sam's back and held onto him. 

They stayed like that for a while, Dean just barely rocking them back and forth as Sam went through...whatever it was he was going through. Dean wished he knew, and yet at the same time was kinda glad he didn't. After a while, Sam started to pull away, his tired eyes moving up to meet Dean's. Dean instinctively moved to help Sam lay down properly on the bed so he could get some rest. Sam seemed to go along with being led through the process, but suddenly reached up and grabbed onto Dean's bicep, forcing the older brother to meet his eyes again.

“Dean...”

“Right here, Sammy,” he assured.

“I...” he seemed to want to tell him something, but the information kept blurring in and out in his mind. Dean sat back down, patiently awaiting his brother's clarity if there could be any. Then Sam met his eyes again. “When I was...in the pit,” he started, “I saw you.”

“What?” Dean twitched.

“Every now and then,” Sam told him, his eyes wandering around in the space outlining Dean's face. “Every...couple of weeks,” he continued. “You would be there looking down at me from outside the cage.” Dean felt his stomach drop to the floor and then climb up into his throat. “I wanted it to really be you...” Dean gritted his teeth. “Not...not for you to be in Hell. Not to...save me. But... I missed you. I wanted it...to really be you...”

Dean swallowed against the bile rising in the back of his throat, fighting to figure out what to say to that. He turned, leaning his back against the headboard and propping his feet on the mattress beside his brother. “Did it ever help you?” he decided on.

“What?”

“Me being there. Did it ever...” he wasn't sure how to finish the question.

“Yeah,” Sam let out. “It did.” And Sam's head moved from his pillow, resting his forehead against Dean's side. Dean's eyes darted back and forth in the air in front of him. He wasn't sure how to feel about any of this; if any of it was true or real. This was...too much. 

Dean moved his hand back into Sam's hair, lightly brushing through the long locks, much like he'd done for him when he was little, until the tremors caused by nightmares subsided...


	21. Chapter 21

Tony sat on the floor, his back up against the wall outside Sam's bedroom door. His elbows propped on his bent knees, palms of his hands covering his eyes, and fingers gripping the front of his hair as he listened to Sam's screams...

This is how it had gone the past couple of nights. Dean stayed with Sam while he slept. It was the only way Sam could sleep; knowing Dean was there and that he was real. But the nightmares were so bad that it took a while to pull him back out. Tony had torn down the stairs the previous night at the sound of Sam's horror, as did Gibbs. They'd gone to the bedroom and had tried to help, but Dean was the only one who had any kind of handle on it. So all they could do was be nearby to offer assistance, if necessary. 

That's what Tony was doing now. He'd been on the couch almost in a deep sleep when he was violently ripped from it by Sam's shrieking cry. He'd run to the room, going in just long enough to tell Dean he was there, then shut the door and sank to the floor. He listened to them both; Sam's terror, and Dean trying to bring him back. Dean had started out strong, but his voice sounded more and more broken as it went on. 

“It's okay, Sammy. You're not there anymore; it's not real. You're safe now. You're home. I'm here with you, Sam, okay? I'm right here... Please, Sammy, come on. Wake up, little brother. You're safe...I promise. 'm not gonna let anything happen to you. 'm gonna keep you safe, okay? Not gonna let you go, ever again...Sam...” Dean recited over and over. 

All while Sam struggled through the haze of nightmare that kept him locked away from reality. “No! No please don't... No more! Please...please...no more.” His voice gradually got softer, as if he'd been slowly hoisted up out of a deep well, calming as he ascended; slowly returning to consciousness.

“That's it, Sammy. Come on,” a little hope returned to Dean's voice. “Open your eyes and see where you are; home with me. At Gibbs' house, remember, Sammy?” 

“De- Dean?” Sam weakly croaked out; voice hoarse from the screaming. 

“Yeah, buddy, it's me,” Dean replied, cradling Sam who was half in his lap, half in Dean's arms. Sam slowly pulled his eyes open and looked up at Dean. Relief seemed to morph onto Sam's face, and Dean gave him a small smile of his own similar feelings. He watched as Sam reached out to place a hand on Dean's chest, then pulled at Dean's shirt. This seemed to be a routine for Sam, now; a way to know he was really there with his brother. He held the material, then pressed closer to him, burrowing his head into it and breathing in; enough to smell him. Only then did Sam marginally relax; body shaking still from the earlier exertion. And Dean held onto him, stroking a hand through his hair until he was completely relaxed again, and drifting off to a more peaceful sleep. Dean didn't waste the chance at getting some more rest, himself.

In the hall, Tony pushed up off of the floor quietly, and started back toward the couch. He was slightly startled to find Gibbs there waiting for him. He was sitting on the edge of the cushion closest to the hall, elbows on his knees and his hands clamped together out in front of him. He looked up when he heard Tony enter the room.

“Boss? What are you doin' up?” Tony whispered. Gibbs raised a brow, as it should've been obvious. “Oh. Right,” he nodded, making his way back to the couch. “I think he's got him back to sleep now,” he informed him.

“You should go upstairs,” Gibbs told him quietly. “There's ear plugs in the side-table drawer in the guest room. I'll stay down here the rest of the night.”

“You need to sleep too, boss.”

“I got some. I'll be fine,” he replied, watching as Tony sat down beside him. “DiNozzo...”

“Not like I can go back to sleep right this minute, boss,” Tony argued. “Not the way my heart's beating right now,” he swiped a hand down his face. Gibbs narrowed his eyes, appraising his agent. Tony didn't usually openly admit to something effecting him in that way. The exhaustion must have won that fight. “Ya know,” Tony continued, “They say that...the things that go on in Hell, you can't even imagine the horrors. Well,” he let out a small laugh, “I listen to Sam's screaming and I can't help but to try and imagine what it was that happened to him. And it's downright horrifying. But I know that it's so much worse than what I'm picturing...and that scares the hell outta me.” He shook his head, not even looking to Gibbs for a response. “How is he awake? How is he alive?” he turned to him this time briefly. “The things they've done their whole lives... To think that he's strong enough to get through these nights without completely shutting down... It's almost unfathomable to me.”

“Yeah,” Gibbs nodded, not looking away from Tony. “He's strong. The both of them are. But they're not indestructible. In fact, I'm sure if they had a choice in the matter, they'd have chosen a different life for themselves.”

“A choice,” Tony laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. “That's another thing I just can't accept. It pisses me off, boss. It makes me so...angry; what they've had to go through. It's not fair to them. None of it. And it's like it never ends. They keep taking it, and they don't run away and hide. They just keep taking it...”

“Hey,” Gibbs put a hand on his shoulder in attempt to ground him a bit from the small meltdown he seemed to be heading toward. He was momentarily struck silent when he felt the slight tremors under his hand.

“I couldn't do it,” Tony said. “I couldn't do what he's doing in there. I wouldn't want to. It's bad enough he had to go through all that in the first place. But to relive it? After finally getting out of there? After having a sense of normalcy for just a little while, only to be thrown back into the fire? I couldn't. I'd...I'd rather...” 

“Don't you say that,” Gibbs managed to say sternly, though speaking low and quiet, and it forced Tony to meet his eyes. “He's in there fighting to stay whole; fighting not just for himself, but for everything. Maybe even just for Dean.”

“God, Dean...what he's going through in his head right now in there; I can't even...”

“Exactly,” Gibbs told him. “He's in there fighting right beside him like he's always done. Like they have always done. They're gonna get through this, just like they have everything else.”

“But what if they can't get through this?” Tony asked. “What if this...is what breaks them?” he asked with moisture threatening to drip from his eye.

Gibbs took in a long breath. “Then they go down fighting,” he replied. Tony's eyes darted back and forth between his. “And I expect the same from you,” he narrowed his eyes. “Because you sure as hell wouldn't be fighting alone, either.”

Tony looked at him long and hard, schooling his emotions by breathing deeply through his nose. And after a few long moments of silence between them, he spoke, “I love you, boss. You know that, right?”

Gibbs mouth curled up on one side.

“I'd do the same for you,” Tony told him. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Tony, I know. I never doubted that for a second.”

*~.~*

Castiel found Crowley holed up in a camper that he'd covered in sigils. The demon was sitting in front of a small television when Castiel appeared. He seemed not to notice his presence. So he made the tv shut off. “Hello, Crowley,” Castiel said calmly. Crowley kind of froze, aside from the movement of his eyes in Castiel's direction. “You look stressed.”

“Bullocks,” the demons said. Then he found his ability to move, and pushed up out of the chair. “So, the jig is up. You found me.”

“I never lost you,” Castiel replied, looking around the small apartment. “These...scratches,” he indicated to the sigils, “They're all useless.”

“Still. Can't blame a girl for trying,” he smiled. “Fancy a drink before you smite me?”

“No,” Castiel had a ghost of a smile on his face.

“You like to bend 'em right over, do you? Let's go,” he told him, spreading his arms out, turning his head and closing his eyes in preparation. 

“I'm not going to kill you, Crowley,” he responded. Crowley cracked open an eye to look at him. “I have plans for you.”

He turned his head to face him. “Wha's 'at?”

“I want to reopen the door.”

“To purgatory?”

“Yes.”

“You'll have to wait for an eclipse,” Crowley shook his head and turned toward his drink.

“I cannot wait that long.”

“Well, there's no other way.”

“Find one,” Castiel demanded. “Find one quickly, and I'll let you live and return to your post as king of Hell.”

“And if I can't?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, “Then I'll have no use for you.” And with that, he vanished...

Crowley let out a breath, rolling his eyes as his head fell back in defeat.

*~.~*

It had been a week since Sam woke up. Every day and night was the same. But Dean was determined to make some kind of progress; something...anything to bring some sense of normalcy to his brother. So, this morning he decided that Sam was going to get dressed and have breakfast at the table instead of in bed. He told Sam of his plan during a rare moment of lucidity, and the younger Winchester simply nodded in compliance, willing to try at least.

So there they were, attempting to get him dressed. Sam had been moderately successful in pulling a tee shirt on over his head, and with some help, found the arm holes. He was frighteningly weak, Dean noticed. Probably from the lack of sleep and all the fight he went through each night through the nightmares. This didn't even count the things he experienced during the day. 

Sam's gaze seemed to be fixed on the pair of socks that laid on the bed near the foot of it, as Dean helped him into his jeans. “You pull 'em up, alright, Sammy?” Dean got him to meet his eyes for a moment and Sam nodded, pushing slowly up from the bed so that he could pull the jeans the rest of the way up his hips. “Good. Alright. Now sit back down and let's get these socks on you.”

Sam's gaze fell back on the socks as he lowered himself back onto the bed. “N-no,” Sam said.

“No what?” Dean asked. “You wanna do it yourself?” Sam swallowed, glancing at his brother fearfully, then back to the socks. 

“No...”

“Then let me help you,” Dean reached for the socks.

“No!” Sam caught Dean's hand, and Dean furrowed his brows, confused. “D-don't...touch,” Sam's breathing had picked up, Dean realized.

“Sam, what's wrong?” Dean rose from where he was kneeling on the floor in front of him. Sam just looked from him to the socks and back, over and over; eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. “They're just socks, Sam.” He moved to pick them up, but Sam dove to catch his hand again.

“N-no! No!” Sam cried out in desperation as Dean picked them up with his free hand.

“Just socks, Sammy,” Dean insisted, holding them still in his hand. 

Sam scrambled away from him, and back against the headboard, though he seemed to try and keep pressing further away. Complete terror written on his face was surmounted with hyperventilation and tears. “P-ple-ease...don't... N-no... L-leave...Dean... 'lone...”

“Sammy,” Dean turned and shoved the socks into a drawer, shutting it before he turned back to his brother, and cautiously approached the bed. “Sam, they were just socks. They can't hurt me, and they can't hurt you, okay? Just socks.” Sam just eyed the drawer, curling in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest. “Sammy, look at me,” Dean told him, sitting carefully down beside him. “Sam!” Dean said more sternly, placing a hand on Sam's arm. Sam startled and met his brother's eyes. The older hunter felt bad for scaring him yet again. Though the sock thing hadn't been intentional, nor did it make much sense to him right now. “C'mere, Sammy,” he said, softening his tone as he opened his arms toward his brother. 

Sam let out a small sob as he moved toward him, burying his head in Dean's chest as his arms wrapped around his back. “'m sorry, Dean... Sorry...”

“Sshh, it's okay,” Dean held Sam's head gently; his other arm hugging around his back. “No reason to be scared, though. I wouldn't give you somethin' that'd hurt you. You know that, right, Sam?” He felt Sam nod against his chest as he let out another sob. “Why did they scare you so much, huh? Can you tell me?”

Sam sniffled and stiffened, and seemed to be holding his breath at the question.

“It's okay,” Dean told him. “If you don't wanna tell me right now, it's okay, Sammy.”

“Not the...” Sam let out his breath and paused, trying to find words, which seemed difficult for him since he'd woken from the wall-breaking incident. “Not the same...there,” Sam told him. “Different. Bad.”

“Okay,” he replied, absorbing the vague explanation. He remembered his own stint in Hell. There were things there that you couldn't really put into words. There was too much for the mind to process. Too much to accurately describe exactly what it was. There wasn't a sense outside of Hell that could give a living person the capability to portray or conceive it. One of the many reasons coming back from it was never fully possible. “Okay, Sam,” he said again. “No socks today. But you gotta remember that here, they're just socks. Just cotton and spandex. And you kinda need 'em or your boots are gonna reek. And I couldn't, with a clear conscience, purchase you a pair of flip-flops.”

His joke at the end had the desired effect. He felt Sam shake a bit as he laughed. “No flip-flops,” Sam told him, a smile evident in his voice.

“Damn straight, no flip-flops,” Dean replied. “You make me buy flip-flops, they're gonna be neon pink with little plastic rhinestones. I'm not even kidding.”

“No flip-flops,” Sam repeated, pulling away gently and meeting Dean's eyes. “You'll help me. To not be scared.”

“Always, Sam,” Dean replied, both happy to have gotten through to him, and saddened at this childlike state his brother had been thrust into. “Now,” he cleared his throat and moved to stand up off of the bed, “You ready for some breakfast? Your feet might be cold, but your belly doesn't have to be empty,” he smirked.

“Okay, Dean,” he accepted his brother's proffered hand, and got up out of the bed. Dean helped him to the kitchen, where Tony and Gibbs were cooking. “Tony,” Sam said upon seeing him. “Gibbs.” He recognized them both. That was a good thing.

“Yeah, they're makin' us some grub, little bro,” Dean told him as he helped him to his seat. 

At the stove, the agents shared a glance. They were hesitant to immediately interact with Sam. Last time they did, Sam hadn't recognized them. Not only did he not seem to know who they were, but his mind had told him they were something that would hurt him. It hadn't been a good day.

So they turned around slowly and cautiously, looking to Sam to make sure he wasn't afraid, before they headed to the table with the meal they'd prepared. Gibbs looked to Dean, who gave him a short nod, and Dean looked to Sam.

“Hey, Sam, you mind if Tony and Gibbs eat here with us?” he asked.

“No,” Sam looked to Dean. “I don't mind. I'd like that,” he told him, and looked at the agents with a small smile. “Thank you...for breakfast.”

Tony smiled back, “Any time, Sam.”

“Feeling okay this morning?” Gibbs asked Sam, but the question was directed at both of them.

“N-not too bad,” Sam replied.

“I think we're doin' pretty great, today,” Dean added, setting a plate in front of his brother. “What would you like, Sam? There's pancakes, bacon, sausage, toast... You want some OJ?”

Sam looked at the plates of food laid out on the table, trying to decide. He pointed at the pancakes, unable to recall what they were called, in the moment. And Dean forked a few of them and plopped them onto Sam's plate. He knew how Sam liked his pancakes, so he simply prepared them without asking. Normally, that would've annoyed Sam; Dean would've gotten the “bitch” face. But Sam smiled gratefully at him.

Dean turned to the agents, “You guys sleep okay last night?”

It was a tough question to answer. They got as much sleep as they could, between Sam's nightmares; each switching out places on the couch. They were getting more sleep than the Winchesters were. 

“Yeah. Slept okay,” Gibbs replied, then shoved a forkful of sausage into his mouth. Dean signaled 'keep going' with his hand, telling them to continue talking, and he turned to his brother to see him observing the pancakes with some sort of confused indecision.

“You gonna eat 'em, or wait for them to do cartwheels?” Dean asked, and had about an eighth of a second more before he considered the fact that maybe Sam wasn't sure how to use a fork anymore. But then Sam looked over at him with a slightly amused smirk and reached for his fork. They all watched as Sam stuck his fork in the middle of the stack. Sam, who pretty much pre-cut all of his food into little squares before eating. Sam, ever polite, with good table etiquette; like full out napkin-in-your-lap manners... proceeded to pick up that stack of pancakes, flipping it so the fork was underneath and the cakes flopped over, almost touching his hand, then took a bite from one of the sides. 

This was immediately followed by Sam letting out a snorting bit of laughter, amused with himself, even if he wasn't completely sure why. The rest of them snickered at the sight.

“Finally mastered the art of eating pancakes, Sammy,” Dean told him with a smile. “I'm so proud.” He moved to pick his own stack up in the same fashion. He had them ready to take a bite, then glanced to Sam, who now had his eyes closed, slowly chewing the mouthful of food. “Sam?”

“There was no taste there,” he said, surprisingly understandable around the food in his mouth. “Nothing tasted. Nothing... would feel. But...” he swallowed the bite down, “But I ate anyway. Needed to. That's when...” Sam dropped his fork, his whole body jolting as his eyes opened, panicked. 

“Sam?” Dean put his fork down and turned to him.

“That's...when...burning...” Sam said, his breath coming fast and hard, pushing himself from the table. “Burn...everywhere...inside,” he told him. 

“Now? Sam, are you hurting?” Dean jumped when Sam sprang out of the chair, almost immediately crumbling down toward the floor without the aid of his brother's help. “Sam!”

“Burns! Inside it...burns all the way...bleeds out of me... Can't breathe! Can't...scream...can't...breathe...” 

“Sammy, you're okay!” Dean held him. “That's not gonna happen to you here, remember? You're safe now. You're safe, Sam! I'm gonna keep you safe, remember? Not gonna let anyone hurt you! The food isn't going to hurt you, Sammy...”

Sam stopped rambling and held onto his brother, listening, as well as he could manage, to his words. He tried to breathe; attempted to stifle the fear that had jumped out at him during an otherwise pleasant event. And he understood the logic; knew he wasn't in Hell. He knew that. He knew it because Dean was there, and he could touch him and smell him and hear him. 

“Sorry,” Sam managed. “Sorry, Dean... I'm okay,” he told him. “I'm okay now. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize, Sam,” Dean said, relieved beyond belief. “Just glad you're with me. You wanna try an' eat some more? Or you wanna get some rest?”

“'m hungry, Dean,” he told him, meeting his eyes. But he looked so tired, Dean was torn about what to do. 

“Alright, Sammy. Let's get you to the bedroom and I'll bring the rest of your pancakes in, okay?”

“'kay,” Sam replied, and Dean moved to help him up. 

“Need any help?” Tony asked quietly. Dean looked over at them to see them both standing, but still back a ways, knowing to give Sam space during these episodes. 

“If you can bring his plate...”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Tony replied. “I'll bring it once you've got him settled.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam repeated, but this time to the agents. “Not what you...expected. Dealing with this. With me.”

“Don't you apologize, Sam,” Tony said, making his way over to him with caution. “Doesn't matter what it takes. We care about you, and we want to help you. No matter what.”

“Why?” Sam furrowed his brows, a sad, confused look painting his face as he looked in awe at the agent.

“Why?” Tony repeated the question incredulously. “Sam...you sacrificed yourself...for all of us. You suffered things none of us can imagine. What you're going through now? It's because of that...and there's nothing anyone could say or do that would make me not want to do everything in my power to help you out of this...”

“Is...is there...way out?” Sam asked.

Tony suddenly felt like he'd chosen the wrong words. Dean decided to clarify for him.

“If there is, we'll find it,” he told him. “And if there's not, then we'll figure out a way for you to be able to deal with it; get back to yourself as much as you can be.”

“Y-you th-think...” Sam turned to his brother, “I...I can be m-me again?” he looked hopeful.

Dean put a hand on the side of Sam's neck; his thumb holding his chin steady as he looked at him. “I know you can, Sammy. You're still in there. I know you are...”


	22. Chapter 22

Eight more weeks went by, bringing the decision to allow Ducky to get a hold of some prescription medication for Sam. The lack of restful sleep and the ridiculous amount of stress he'd been going through had started to make him physically ill. He was throwing up everything he managed to eat. Dean got more and more afraid for him every time he helped to get him clean and could see the muscle mass dropping off of him by the day. 

Last night was the first night they'd tried Sam on a mixture of anti-anxiety medication and sleep aids, along with an anti-emetic to make sure his dinner would stay down. It seemed to help some; Sam hadn't woken up during the night. But Dean could tell the nightmares were still haunting him, with the twitching in his limbs and whimpering. Ducky had decided on a little stronger of anti-anxiety medicine, and a bit of Valerian Root to try and see if that would help at all. 

Everything was set up to go for tonight. Dean and Sam were left home without the others as they went in to work, though Tony was worried about the older Winchester. Dean hadn't gotten much sleep at all lately, and you could see it in his face; in the way he held himself. He looked defeated; worn. He looked like he was clinging to bare threads of hope that were destined to snap at any moment. Tony wanted to force him to rest. But he knew Dean was too damned stubborn to listen about anything but Sam's well-being at the moment.

So the agent had been on edge all morning. The bullpen was unusually quiet; McGee and Ziva sharing worried glances as they appraised their team member. Gibbs was upstairs in a meeting, so they had no way to determine whether the mood was simply due to a rough night. But this seemed like a bit more.

“Are you okay, Tony?” McGee asked.

Tony turned his head to glance at McGee, noting the worry on his face, then looked over at Ziva to see a similar expression. He forced his features to relax into a light smile, “I'm fine. Why?”

“It seems perhaps you had a long night again?” Ziva asked.

“Did Ducky's suggestions help Sam at all?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, they're helping some,” Tony told him. The other agents remembered, all too well, those first couple of nights. Those nights they all remained in the house, unsure if they were safe to leave to their own apartments yet. 

McGee stood and made his way toward Tony's desk, “So he's...getting better sleep?”

“Depends on your definition of better,” Tony raised his brows. “He slept heavier; didn't wake up screaming last night. But he's still having the nightmares, Dean says.”

McGee noticed the way Tony's eyes shifted with concern when he mentioned Dean. “You're worried about Dean,” he surmised.

Tony met his eyes. “He hasn't slept. Kinda difficult when it's a rare occasion that Sam will accept any help from anyone but him.”

“Maybe it'll be easier for him, now that Ducky's getting Sam on some proper medication,” the younger man offered.

“That seems like it would give him the opportunity to not have to be at Sam's side at every moment of the day and night,” Ziva added.

“I'm hoping,” Tony replied. Then he looked back down at the paperwork on his desktop, not quite concentrating on what he was reading, but putting in a good effort to make it look that way.

McGee turned back to his own desk, but not before sharing a still-concerned glance with Ziva. Then he thought quickly, and turned back to the senior field agent, “Hey, Tony, you wanna grab a beer after work this evening?”

Tony snapped his head back toward his teammate. McGee wasn't one to normally ask if anyone wanted to go out and do anything. His intention was going to be to turn him down. But the near-pleading look on the younger man's face made him think about it. “I shouldn't...”

“You need a break,” Tim retorted.

“Dean needs a break,” Tony countered. “But he can't take one. And it'd seem...I mean, if I didn't show up there with Gibbs after work, it'd look like...” he wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. 

“Like you deserve a break more than he does?” Ziva suggested.

“But I don't.”

“You deserve a break,” McGee argued. “So does Dean, and we've all offered to try and keep watch over Sam while he takes one. But he won't. I mean, I don't think he has it in him to. Not yet, anyway. Doesn't mean you shouldn't step back from it...even just for a couple hours.”

“He'll take a break,” Gibbs said, rounding the corner, “Just as soon as we figure out who killed this Navy Lieutenant.” Tony's gaze had fixed on Gibbs for a few short moments, before the rest of the team geared up to follow Gibbs to the elevator. 

“Guess I'm going out with you tonight, Probie,” Tony said quietly to Tim.

“Don't sound so thrilled,” Tim raised a brow.

“Sorry...” Tony replied sheepishly as they boarded the elevator. Tim looked over in surprise at the apology, and saw Tony's gaze on the floor. McGee was possibly even more worried now, then he had been before.

*~.~*

Luckily the case was quickly solved, as the killer was an amateur and left plenty of evidence that led them directly to him. Unluckily for the Navy Lieutenant and his family, that didn't change the fact that their lives had been torn apart. 

Tony and Ziva had done a superb job in their efforts to comfort the family as much as they could be. And that was saying a lot for Ziva, though McGee suspected that's why Gibbs had sent her with Tony. There was always opportunity to learn. And now that they were headed back to NCIS, Tim noticed the exhaustion on Tony's face that he'd somehow managed to keep hidden the entire day. It was almost 1900 hours, anyway. 

“Paperwork can wait until tomorrow,” Gibbs said as they strolled into the bullpen. “Go home. Be here at 0600.”

“Yes, boss,” McGee discretely happily agreed, more relieved that Tony could leave with him now, instead of forcing himself through reports. And when Tim met Gibbs' eyes, he could tell the lead agent was well aware of how Tony was doing, himself. That was the point in letting them go. Tim was as grateful for it as Gibbs was for Tim taking the initiative with Tony.

Tony collected his things. It wasn't that he didn't want to hang out with McGee. He actually looked forward to it; it'd been way too long since they'd last had any kind of time to just...be. But he felt guilty. And he knew that that was slightly ridiculous. It's not as if there was anything he was actually helping Dean out with. But the fact that he was just kinda ditching out while Dean was still there running himself into the ground, made Tony feel like a gigantic jerk.

On the same token, Gibbs had kind of made it an order. That made him feel minutely better about actually taking the probie up on his offer. So he willingly walked side by side with Tim to the elevator, without arguing. “So,” he finally spoke, “I dunno if I can handle an actual bar tonight, as much as a beer sounds...just awesome.”

“I was thinkin' more along the lines of pizza, beer, movie, my place.”

“Your place?” Tony raised a brow.

“You haven't been to yours for weeks, except to trade out clothes and pick up your mail. There's probably nothing in the fridge. I have a twenty-four pack case of your favorite beer, among other things...including popsicles.”

“Popsicles?” he looked at him. “Who told you I like popsicles?”

“You did,” Tim smirked. “Or well, I made the assumption, since you eat through the box of them whenever we're at my place having a movie night, and you think I'm too buzzed to be paying attention to what you're doing.” Tony let out a small laugh at that, and the elevator door opened to the garage level. 

“So, what movie?” Tony asked as they made their way to McGee's car.

“What are you in the mood for? And please don't say Titanic...”

“Funny,” Tony responded. “I think a comedy is in order.”

“Well, you've got at least a dozen DVDs you've left at my place. I think we left off right before The Spy Who Shagged Me, in the Austin Powers series,” he suggested as they got into the car. 

“That sounds smashing, darling,” Tony told him in his best Powers impression.

*~.~*

“Thanks for followin' me back, Duck,” Gibbs told his friend as they walked from their cars toward his house. “I know it's been a long day for all of us.”

“Not as long as I'm sure it's been for the Winchesters,” Ducky replied. “I'm happy to try and be of some assistance. Now, hopefully Dean will listen to a bit of reason.”

“Let's assume he won't.”

“Well, let's hope there won't be a need for him not to. Perhaps this concoction will help Sam a bit.” Once inside, Ducky said as much to the older Winchester.

“What is it supposed to do, exactly?” Dean asked.

“As a more immediate effect,” Ducky began, “It should lower the over-activity in Sam's brain enough that while in a deepened sleep, as we'll be placing him, his mind will be getting more rest than it has been with the nightmares. Now, with the amount of rest he's lost, I feel we should do this a bit more regularly than a night time schedule, to start. While you can't really ever catch up on sleep, you can give your brain a chance to recover from trauma. This is what I feel Sam is in desperate need of,” he told him, leaving out the obvious fact that Dean, too, needed to recover. “In addition, we'll need to make sure his nutrition doesn't suffer. Now, I believe giving him some intravenous fluids would be the best option, for now. If you're able to get him to eat anything along with that, excellent. If not, there's no danger that he'll become ill.”

“But what is it, exactly, you'll be giving him?”

Ducky was slightly hesitant to respond, thinking Dean wouldn't handle the answer well. “In addition to what we have him on, anti-psychotics.”

Dean sat up a bit straighter, taking a deep breath as he absorbed the information. “How long do you wanna do this?” he asked warily. 

“I'd like to try several days, perhaps a week, to start. Then we'll see how he progresses.”

“And then?”

“Then...we'll start him on strong antidepressants, continuing him on the anti-anxiety medication and something called Prazosin for a more long term solution to his nightmares.”

“You think this is gonna fix him?” Dean asked incredulously. “Sam's been to Hell, Doc, not a battlefield. This is destroying him...”

“It likely won't fix anything,” Ducky replied. “But it might help to get him some sense closer to humanity, than trapped where he is in his mind right now.”

“Dean,” Gibbs chimed in, “I think you know as well as any of us that the one guy that could've fixed Sam is no longer an option.” Dean clenched his jaw. “So we've gotta assume...Sam's not magically coming back from this one; not unless something changes, and we can't count on that. If there's a way to give him moments of lucidity... or maybe a state of some functionality where he's not terrified or in pain, then I think you should let Ducky try. He's only trying to help.”

“I know that,” Dean said, his voice shaky with emotion. “I'm sorry, Ducky, I didn't mean to... I just... It's Sam, and I'm worried. I just want him well; whatever that can mean for him now.”

“As do we,” Ducky replied. “Uh...shall we proceed, then, with the treatment?”

Dean's eyes shifted for a moment before settling back on the doctor. “If you think it's what's best.”

Ducky let out a breath of relief, “Very good. It'll take a while to set everything up, and as his administering physician I insist on staying the night to observe any reactions. So I suggest you take advantage, young man,” he told Dean. “Have you eaten today?”

“Haven't been very hungry, honestly. But now that you mention it, I guess now I am, a little.”

“I'm gonna reheat some of last night's dinner you skipped out on,” Gibbs told him. “Wanna join me?”

“Sure,” Dean told him, glancing over his brother's sleeping form once more before standing.

*~.~*

“Throw the movie on, then kick back and relax,” Tim told Tony as the older man slipped out of his shoes at the door. “I'll grab the beer and call for a pizza.”

“Half with extra cheese-”

“Sausage and pepperoni, yeah,” McGee finished for him. “I know, Tony. How many times have I ordered pizza for us in the past eight years?”

“You forgot the extra cheese last time.”

“That was the pizza place! Not me!” he defended.

“Sure it was.”

“Tony...ya know what? Go put the movie on. I'll be back in a minute.” He wasn't going to argue with Tony over something he knew that Tony knew was bull. He was just trying to egg him on, and Tim wasn't having any of that tonight. So he went to the kitchen, phone to his ear waiting for the pizza place to pick up, and grabbed a couple of bottles of beer from the fridge. He ordered the pizza, left his phone on the counter, and headed back into the living room. 

What he was met with were the previews playing softly on the television, and Tony with his feet up on the coffee table, his head back on the couch, fast asleep. Momentarily unsure of how to react, Tim quickly decided that this was a good thing. Tony needed rest, and that had, after all, been the point of getting him to come over. 

Tim quietly set the bottles on the coffee table and grabbed a throw blanket from his desk chair, very carefully covering his teammate from knees to shoulders. “G'night, Tony,” he whispered, then gently sat on the other side of the couch, picking up one of the bottles of beer, and watched the movie, waiting on the pizza delivery.

*~.~*

“How's he doin'?” Gibbs asked quietly as he approached Ducky, who sat vigil beside Sam's bed. 

“He seems to be sleeping peacefully,” he replied. “I put emphasis on the 'seems to be'. Where's Dean?”

“Finally passed out on the couch. Best I could get him to do. He wants to be close by if anything happens with Sam.”

“Mm,” Ducky acknowledged. “Well, it's likely Sam is still suffering the nightmares, though not near as strong as they were. Of course, that's simply stating they're about as bad as bad dreams can get in a normal human being. There are intervals of twitching in the facial muscles, and full-body jerks; much as you'd see in a sleep-study patient who suffered severe night terrors. Though Samuel has a large amount of medications in his system for sleep, anxiety, nightmares, et cetera, whereas those sleep-study patients would be on nothing at all.”

“But this will help him to get better physiologically?” Gibbs questioned.

“Theoretically it should give his brain a better change to adapt and repair. And in tandem, his body to begin recovering from...well, his inability to properly care for himself. As much as Dean has tried, and has done as good a job as anyone could have, Sam's inability to sleep soundly, or keep from vomiting without medical intervention, and not being able to be physically active or even perform a daily routine, is causing much of his system to break down. You can already see he's lost weight; most of it being muscle mass. If we can get him to a point where sleep is regained in some fashion, he should eventually recover to a point that he's at least up and around, getting himself to a healthier state.”

“And if this doesn't work?”

“Well...then I'm afraid the poor lad will need to be institutionalized. Not that it would help anymore than this-”

“Dean won't let that happen.”

“The rate Dean is going, he'll end up there too,” Ducky told him. “The poor boy wouldn't have a choice, in his mind; even if Sam wasn't fixated on needing him, and only him, in every waking moment. I wouldn't be surprised if, even as he sleeps out there, his dreams are overrun with being in here...”


	23. Chapter 23

Castiel felt...like he'd previously gone on a bender, and all of him was currently suffering for it. He didn't remember going to sleep. He didn't really remember much of anything, truth be told, as he opened his eyes. He realized he was lying on a floor, or so it seemed, as everything in his vision was sideways. The next thing he noticed was that there was blood. A lot of blood.

Blood on his hands, his coat...the floor around him. And as he pushed himself up to stand, he realized its origin. A meeting room filled with several dead bodies. All slain by what, Castiel was unsure. Whomever or whatever it was, it had presumably attacked him as well. Though he could find no reason why he'd have been affected by any force; there shouldn't be one greater than he, after all. 

That's when it clicked. He had done this. He looked down at his bloody hands, slightly panicked and filled with regret. How had he even gotten here? What had been the purpose? He remembered having the inclination of wanting to stop someone here; someone who had been falsely using God's name to promote themselves in the political world. He remembered wanting to punish her, but realizing that it might not be the right decision... So...how did he end up here anyway? 

Dean was right. This was a bad idea. He should have stopped after Raphael. And now...now he wasn't sure he could stop himself at all. He needed help. Crowley was getting nowhere, and he was certain he'd burned his bridges with the Winchesters. They must hate him now. They'd been cleaning up messes since the beginning of their existence. He couldn't ask them to clean up his, now...

Castiel found himself appearing before Crowley in the trailer, staggering once the trip was completed.

“Holy bloody hell!” Crowley yelled, both at the suddenness and the bloofy appearance of Castiel. “What've you been up to now?”

“It would seem,” Castiel took a few breaths, realizing he seemed to be short on it, “That I am no longer in complete control of my actions.”

“Well. That seems...pleasant. What am I to do about it, then?” he asked. Castiel furrowed his brow, confused by the question. “You came here,” Crowley stated. “You must need something from me?”

“I...” a wave of dizziness hit him.

“For God's sake, sit down before you break a table-- wait! Let me...put something down on the... Ya know, to hell with it. Get your mystery blood-goo all over the place. I don't rightly give a damn anymore.” 

“Have you made any progress...on the door?” Castiel asked, ignoring the demon's suggestion.

“Nothing. Nothing, I can do, mind you.”

“Then you must ask them.”

“Who?”

“Dean. You must ask Dean to help you.”

“Why would he want to help either of us?”

“Like I said,” Castiel listed, but righted himself again, “I am no longer in complete control. I cannot guarantee that whatever it is...controlling my actions, won't kill you. Or the Winchesters. Someone has to stop me.”

Crowley considered this for a moment, then walked to the counter and picked up the bottle of amber liquor, pouring some in a glass. “How very convenient that we can't contain you, can't kill you...”

“There must be a solution,” Castiel interrupted. “You are not thinking hard enough. You must contact Dean; implore him to assist you.” His gaze fell a bit, “Perhaps he harbors enough anger toward me that he will find a way to destroy me somehow.”

“Well he doesn't need me to encourage him to figure out that much.”

“His attention is likely on Sam,” Castiel answered. “Regardless, the longer you wait, the more you gamble that your number will be chosen.”

“Or theirs,” Crowley cockily smirked.

“In which case, you would be most unfortunate to have waited,” he replied, then vanished. 

“Bollocks...”

*~.~*

“This just in; moments ago, authorities discovered a horrific slaughter has taken place in a local campaign building. Seventeen are reported dead, killed in a manner police are currently unable to identify. Names are being withheld until family can be notified. Authorities are telling us that the security feed shows one assailant; a man who looks to be in his mid-thirties, dark hair, wearing a business suit and a trench coat. They believe the footage was tampered with, and will have a specialist team in on the case. But sources say this might be the same man authorities have been looking for from the incident that took place in the church last week...”

Dean turned off the small television as he heard footsteps coming down into the basement toward him. He looked up to verify that it was Gibbs. 

“Didn't mean to wake you up,” Dean told him as Gibbs reached the bottom.

“Was just getting up, anyway. You should still be sleeping.”

“Couldn't,” he plopped back down on the saw horse. “Too used to no sleep, now. Wish I could do a whole night, but my brain isn't in on the idea, apparently.”

“Nightmares?” he asked knowingly.

“You could say that. These broadcasts aren't helping, either. What the hell is Cas getting into? Mass killing of humans? I mean the priest guy...I kinda understood. This political crap? He's gonna have to wipe out half the country. I don't like where this is going. At all.” 

“No way to stop him, or so it would seem,” Gibbs told him. “I feel like this is outta our hands. Shouldn't be weighing you down. You've got enough on your plate right now.”

“It's all because of him though, Gibbs,” he retorted. “Every time I look at Sam, I think about how Cas betrayed me. Betrayed us... After everything we've been through; the past few years means nothing to him? We were just...trying to protect him, for god's sake.”

“You really should find a new phrase for that,” Crowley's voice sounded from behind Dean, and the hunter whipped around, reaching pointlessly for a weapon that wasn't on him.

“How did you get in here?” Gibbs furrowed his brow.

“You really should check your salt lines now and then,” the demon answered.

“What the hell do you want?” Dean scowled. 

“Easy there, jumpy,” Crowley held out his hands. “I've actually come to help.” Dean narrowed his eyes. “Alright, I've come to ask for your help.”

“Why would I help you?”

“Because we're all gonna bloody die, if not. That's why.”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“Castiel's lost control.”

“Yeah, we're aware.”

“No. You're not. He came to me weeks ago, asking that I find a way to reopen the door. Came back to me today covered in God-knows-who-- wait. Well, I guess he doesn't, does he?” he smirked. 

“He doesn't know why he was covered in...wait, what was he...never mind.”

“The crap inside him is gaining control over his actions. He must've known it was gonna happen, since he came and found me almost immediately, demanding I help him. Only, the only way I could find to do so, is to bind Death. And there's no way I'd be stupid enough to do that.”

“And you think I am?” Dean replied gruffly.

“I think you've not got much of a choice,” Crowley replied. “The power that idiot is currently toting around with him is too much to handle for any one being; angel or otherwise. But you already knew that, didn't you?” Dean didn't really need to reply to that. “Thing you didn't take into consideration is that it's not just about it killing him. We're all in danger until that inevitably happens. So you can either suck it up and save all our backsides and who knows how many other countless lives in the process that, in all honesty, I could give two donkey-shakes less about, or just sit here and sulk over the poor, pathetic, mentally disabled baby giraffe upstairs, and let Castiel take us all down with him.”

“Watch how you talk about my brother, you overgrown, diseased Manhattan rat,” he growled.

“What? I said baby giraffe this time.”

“Damnit, Crowley, I swear--”

“Calm your horses, Deanie,” he raised his brows. “You're getting us off topic.”

“What do I have to do to get you to leave?” 

Crowley smiled cockily. Then he reached into his suit coat and pulled out a piece of aged paper. “This is an incantation that will allow you to bind Death. Everything you need is listed here. In fact, I'll even be so kind as to acquire the items for you. Shall I bring them here?”

“No,” Dean replied hesitantly. “I mean...yes. But this time, ring the damn doorbell. And stop thinkin' you're so damn badass, strollin' up in here like we owe you somethin'. You're too scared to do this yourself. You need me. So do me a favor and quit actin' like it's the other way around.”

“Listen here, you little twit,” Crowley took a step toward him, and Dean stood tall and saw Gibbs step up beside him in defense of him, though it wouldn't really have made a difference. “While you've been babysitting Sam, Interrupted, I've been going through hell to find this incantation. You think this kind of thing is lying around some scruffy old redneck's salvage yard office desk? And do you honestly believe anything you've been doing would've been able to stop Castiel?” 

“This is your fault to begin with!” 

“It was necessary to stop Raphael.”

“As if that was your number one concern, seeing as you teamed up with him right before you got your ass handed to you,” Dean retorted.

“One gigantic mess or the other. That's what it always is, isn't it?” Crowley countered. “It doesn't matter what happened or how it happened. Point is, this is where we're at now, and there's a solution. Or, well,” he tilted his head, looking up a bit, “If you can get him to cooperate, that is. I'll be back within the week with the items you'll require. Sweet dreams, Winchester.” And with that, he vanished. 

Dean's eyes darted around the empty space in front of him, anger flowing him through him for so many reasons. He was nearing the point where he wanted to tear apart everything in his sight, but the logical part of his mind screamed at him that this wasn't the time or the place.

The a hand on his shoulder pulled him back to some semblance of calm. “You okay?” Gibbs voice sounded beside him.

“Drink,” Dean managed to say. “I need a drink. Please, Gibbs,” he asked, still unable to look at him. He heard Gibbs move to the workbench and pull the bottle from its place on the shelf. He heard the nails empty out of the mason jar onto the table, and the amber liquid hit the glass.

“I thought meeting with Death required you to die,” Gibbs said as he brought the jar to Dean. It was half full, Dean noted.

“Just the quickest way,” Dean told him, taking the glass and knocking back its entire contents. “And honestly, probably only the second-worst.”

“Why not just do it that way, then?”

“No angels around to bring me back,” he smirked. “And my guess right now is, Death probably doesn't want anything to do with me. I couldn't stop the very thing he warned me about. Although in my defense, he was pretty vague about it.”

“And binding him will do what?”

“Basically?” he turned to Gibbs, “It'll make it so he doesn't have a choice but to do as I ask him to.”

“And you'll ask him to open the door so the souls can be returned,” Gibbs surmised.

“Yeah.”

“What'll happen to Castiel?”

“I don't know,” Dean shook his head. “Who knows what it's already done to him?”

“If he dies...”

“Yeah. I know,” Dean didn't need reminding. Even if Castiel was reaching out for help, it didn't mean he'd return the favor and fix Sam. Dean set the mason jar down on the workbench. “Think I'm gonna go sit with Sam for a while,” he said as he headed for the stairs. Gibbs wasn't sure there was anything that could be said to reassure Dean. He watched as the younger man fled up the stairs...

*~.~*

Ducky woke from his sleep in the chair beside Sam's bed when he heard the bed creak. Only, instead of Sam being awake, he saw Dean lowering himself into the bed beside him. Ducky was silent and still, waiting to see what the distraught-looking older Winchester planned to do since he didn't seem to even notice Ducky was awake.

Sam was on his back in the middle of the bed, and Dean had just enough room to lie down on his side facing his younger brother. He needed to be near Sam, not completely certain why, but knowing he was feeling helpless and hopeless and it all traced back to how this was going to end for Sam. 

Not wanting to wake him, but needing some sort of contact, Dean reached out and gently grasped onto the sleeve of his brother's shirt, watching Sam's face closely to make sure he wasn't disturbing him. But Sam stirred and immediately turned to look at him.

“Dean?” he said in almost a whisper. “What's wrong? What's 'matter?” he asked worriedly, turning to face his brother, and putting a hand on Dean's cheek.

For some reason, this gesture broke Dean. Of everything Sam was going through, that he noticed Dean's distress and wanted to help him. And here Dean was, trying desperately not to let the tears win over. He was failing.

“I...I don't know what to do, Sammy,” Dean told him, his voice breaking as he spoke.

Sam swallowed against the feeling of sadness that welled in his chest at the sight of his brother's heartache. His thumb swiped the tears that leaked from Dean's eye. “It'll be...okay. Everything will be okay, Dean,” he told him. “Promise.”

Dean let out a mixture of a sob and a laugh at Sam's promise, and couldn't help but to hide further tears by hiding his face in Sam's shoulder. He held onto Sam, partly because he felt like if he didn't have the contact, he might completely crumble into nothing. And partly to keep himself hidden. He felt Sam's arm around his back, warm and comforting. 

Dean wasn't sure exactly what to do from here. But he knew he hadn't meant to wake Sam. Sam needed his rest. He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't be selfish and make Sam keep up what he was doing. “Let's just go to sleep, okay, Sammy? Maybe we'll feel better...”

“Okay. Okay, Dean,” Sam whispered, clinging Dean to him closely. 

Amidst feeling pathetic for needing this and for breaking down, Dean allowed himself the comfort of just being there like this; something he remembered doing for Sam countless times, recently and in childhood, but never accepted for himself. He was slightly amazed at how quickly fatigue suddenly pulled him toward unconsciousness when combined with this feeling...


	24. Chapter 24

“Be careful, Gibbs!” Dean growled when he heard something clang above where he lay under the Impala, tightening the oil pan bolt.

“Don't get a tone with me,” Gibbs snapped back. “I've been workin' on cars since before you could drive.”

“I've been workin' on this car since before I could drive,” Dean countered. “Just be careful with my baby. She's the only thing I can manage to keep fixed anymore,” he said slightly quieter. 

Gibbs let out a long breath, letting his annoyance dissipate with it. Of course Dean hadn't actually been as frustrated with him as he'd made out. It wasn't about the car really at all. 

It'd been a couple of weeks since their visit from Crowley. Sam seemed to do little more than sleep all day since the new regimen Ducky had him on. Dean had been going stir-crazy waiting for something. And he wasn't even sure what that something was anymore. So he just started looking for things to do, and it just so happened that the Impala needed an oil change. Gibbs insisted on giving him a hand.

But they'd had the radio on as they worked, and there were reports of more killings that were obviously done through Castiel. Whether it be under his control or not, it angered Dean. Mostly because all of this could've been avoided had the sonofabitch just listened. But no. Stupid stupid angel-god-thing...

Dean slid out from under the car, pushing up from the garage floor with a grunt, and grabbed a hand towel. Gibbs appraised him for a moment. “Go on in and grab us a couple beers,” he suggested. “I can fill her up,” he cracked open the container of oil. 

Confident that Gibbs was capable of doing said task without him needing to supervise, Dean nodded and headed into the house. Inside, it was a bit cooler than it was in the garage, and it felt nice to breathe in. He wiped his hands on the towel before grabbing the handle to the fridge. As he fished out two bottles from the bottom shelf, a noise sounded behind him before a voice spoke.

“Hey, Dean,” it was Sam. 

Dean spun around, eyes wide, to see his brother standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “You're up...?” 

“Yeah,” he gave a soft, small smile.

“Are you okay?” he took a hesitant step forward. Sam hadn't come out of the room by himself in a long time.

“Yeah.”

“You got dressed...” Obviously. What do I say right now?

“Yeah,” Sam smiled a little bigger. “Put on my own socks and everything.”

“Are you really okay, Sam?”

“I think so. I mean, I can't explain it, but...I'm feeling a lot better,” he sat down on the edge of the table. “You workin' on the car?” he asked, after glancing over Dean's oil-stained shirt.

Dean looked down at himself, then back up at Sam, “Yeah. Changing the oil. About done, actually. Wanna come out, keep us company?”

“Sure,” Sam agreed. Dean nodded and turned to head back out to the garage. This didn't feel real, for some reason; Sam being up and around. It felt out of place, like if he were to be happy about this, something ultimately horrible would happen.

Sam pushed up from the table to follow his brother, but was stopped by a sudden feeling that drew his eyes to the living room. It was as if something was there; something bad. It made the hairs on his skin stand on edge for a moment. But he realized there was likely nothing there; that it was the same thing he'd been feeling since the wall fell, and he needed to calm down and let it go...

*~.~*

“Sam's up,” Dean told Gibbs.

“Oh?” Gibbs stood from his hunched position over the engine and looked at Dean.

“Yeah, as in up outta bed, walkin' an' talkin'. Outta nowhere.”

“Not outta nowhere,” Gibbs reminded him. “Ducky's had him on medication we were hoping would help, and it looks like it might just be.”

“Yeah. I guess that's true,” Dean agreed halfheartedly. “So...what do I tell him?”

“About what?” Gibbs asked, taking the proffered beer Dean had brought out for him.

“About this crap with Crowley... Binding Death, and all this stuff with Cas.”

“Just tell him the truth. No reason not to.”

“He'll just tell me to do it.”

“Yeah. Well, that's because it's the right thing to do,” Gibbs replied.

“But it might not be the right thing for Sam,” he countered. “What if the drug cocktail Ducky's got him on stops working? Or what if we get stuck somewhere where we can't get him his meds for a while, and things get out of control again?”

“Bridges you'll have to cross if you get to them,” Gibbs told him. “Fact is, Sam's doing better right now, and you should be taking advantage of that.” Dean looked him in the eyes. “The car is done for now. Go talk to your brother.”

“Talk to me about what?” Sam asked as he came through the door. 

Dean turned around, scratching the top of his head as he thought, “Uh...nothin'. Nothin' really. Just...stuff that happened while you were sleeping.”

“You...didn't tell people we were engaged or something, did you?” Sam narrowed his eyes.

“What?” Dean squinted, then turned to look at Gibbs who had a smile on his face, though he'd turned his head in attempt to hide it. “Oh, I get it,” Dean said, looking back to Sam who was smiling now, too. “Funny. Well, since you're well enough to be cracking jokes, I suppose I can give you an update.”

“I'll leave you to that,” Gibbs patted Dean on the shoulder and headed toward the house. He gave Sam's shoulder a light squeeze as he passed, and Sam gave him a small smile.

Dean sighed, moving to shut the hood of the car. Then he turned and leaned back on it, taking a sip from his beer. He motioned for Sam to come sit when he didn't automatically. 

“What is it, Dean?” Sam asked, knowing when something was weighing on his brother. He hadn't forgotten the night Dean came to him, not knowing what to do. But he didn't really want Dean to know that he remembered it.

“Cas wants our help,” Dean told him. Sam blinked. “And I don't know whether or not to give it.”

“Help with what?”

Dean explained what was happening; how the souls were affecting Castiel, and how Castiel was worried. He told him how he'd been so much of a coward that he sent Crowley to ask him for help, instead of facing him himself. And now they wanted him to do something dangerous; something life-risking, for the man that all but completely destroyed his brother.

When he was finished, he looked at Sam who was looking somewhere ahead of them, biting down on his lower lip. Dean sighed, “I know what you're gonna say; do it to save people-”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “Do it because...he made a mistake. He made a bad choice. But he had good intentions at first. Things just got carried away, and he didn't wanna believe he was wrong, because it seemed like the only way at the time. But...he meant well, Dean. I kinda know how that feels,” he looked sideways at him. “That and...ya know, the saving lives thing,” he smirked. 

“But what about you?” Dean asked, trying to keep his emotions at bay.

“If you don't help him,” Sam started, “How's that gonna save me?”

“It's not,” Dean shook his head. “But doing this? It's almost guaranteed a deadly end for him. Then who's gonna fix the wall, Sam?”

“Almost guaranteed,” Sam repeated. “There's still a chance.”

“We can find another way.”

“How?” Sam sighed. “Dean, like you said, the longer we wait, the more innocent people die. And for what? Because we don't wanna risk maybe running out of Xanax somewhere down the road?” he gave him an incredulous look. Dean gritted his teeth, looking away from Sam out of frustration. “Look, you've gotta start looking at this more like it's our only chance. Like doing this is our one shot at fixing me. And if it turns out it doesn't work...well, we figure it out from there. But we've gotta help him, Dean.”

“We don't gotta do anything.”

“Yeah. Yeah we do, and you know it.” Dean pushed up off of the car and started to pace the garage. Sam watched him, still seated. “Look, I know you're pissed. You've got a right to be,” Sam argued. “But so do I; even more so.” Dean paused in his tracks. “He used some robotic version of me for this cause, and left my soul in the Pit. And then took away my one defense against what happened down there and left me as good as dead. I know you've suffered with me, Dean,” at that, Dean looked at him. “But I've suffered from his good intentions more than anyone. And I'm sitting here, right now, telling you to give him a chance; help him to try and make this right.”

Dean stood a little straighter, not looking away from Sam. He knew he was right. Dean was being selfish, wanting to hold off and see if there was another way. Dean was only ever selfish when it came to protecting Sam. Nothing else mattered when that's what it boiled down to. But now Sam was telling him not to do that, basically. He was asking him to take a chance on something that could very well mean their futures. How could he tell him no, after everything he'd been through?

Dean knew what he had to do...


	25. Chapter 25

Over the next couple of days, Dean wasn't the only one to notice something was going on with Sam. Not that any of them were complaining, of course. The man had been a complete mess, before. This was nothing in comparison. But Sam refused to even acknowledge that there was anything going on with him, and it only ever seemed to happen when no one was in the room with him.

It would be when someone walked in on Sam, when he'd been alone, and it would be as if Sam had been in a daze or something, or scared, though he wouldn't admit it. “I was just thinking, is all,” is what he'd say to them. They'd only bought that excuse the first couple of times they'd heard it. Now, they accepted it in front of him, but didn't truly believe it at all.

Throwing Sam to the wolves. That's what this seemed like. It felt like when Dean had accepted Sam's plan to get Lucifer back into the cage. He didn't want to lose Sam again. But this felt like just that; like whatever Sam was doing right now to remain upright, was going to crumble at any given moment, and if they couldn't save Castiel, there would be no hope for Sam.

Yet here he stood, mixing together the ingredients to bind Death. He's opted to do this alone, though Sam had greatly protested. In the end, Dean's argument won, and here he was. Though as he added the final ingredient and the room started to shake, he felt like maybe he would've liked someone to have accompanied him.

“You've got to be joking,” Death's voice sounded behind him, and Dean turned to look at him.

Dean's heart pounded in his chest. Death did not look happy to be there, at all. “Uh hi...this isn't what it seems.”

“Seems like you've bound me,” Death held his arms out, showing the gold-like iridescent thread that tethered them together, and ultimately, to Dean.

“For good reason, okay...Just hear me out.” He hesitated for a moment.

“This is about Sam's wall, I assume.”

“What?” Dean hadn't thought of asking about that.

“Sorry. One wall per customer. Now, unbind me.”

“That...that's not what this is about. And I swear, if you can help us, I'll unbind you. I wouldn't have in the first place if I thought you'd be volunteering to fix this-”

“Fix what? Though you're right. I owe you nothing.”

“I know. I know that. And I know you warned me...though I gotta say, I did try and stop it. It's Castiel.”

“That insignificant little angel? What could you possibly have needed me for, involving him?”

“He's in trouble. I assumed you'd know about it... He opened purgatory-”

“Yes, I know. And now you want me to fix everything.”

“That'd...that'd be nice, yeah.”

“How do you suppose I do that, then? Kill him? I should tell you that wouldn't be the best option. And that decision has nothing to do with the angel.”

“I think he understands he's screwed up,” Dean told him. “He's out of control, and we need to return the souls to purgatory before it kills us all.”

“How unfortunate. That's the least of your problems, you realize. There are more than souls in purgatory. He's lost control likely because of that.”

“What're you talking about?” Dean narrowed his eyes. 

“Long before God created angel and man, he made the first beasts. The leviathans.”

“Leviathans?”

“I, personally, found them entertaining. But then they chomped the entire Petra-dish, so He locked them away. Why do you think He created purgatory? To keep those clever, poisonous things out. Now Castiel has swallowed them. He's the one thin membrane between the Old Ones and your home.”

“All the more reason to send them back, then,” Dean replied. “I need you to help...please. I...I'll unbind you. I just needed to get your attention, and dying wasn't exactly an option this time.”

“I'm not here to tie your shoes every time you trip, Dean.”

“I tried. I really did. I mean, maybe you should find somebody a little better to tip off...”

“Maybe I should find a better planet.” 

“Look,” Dean turned over the altar of binding materials and the golden thread disintegrated from Death's hands. “Please...” he begged. 

Death met his eyes. He took a long, deep breath in through his nose, then let it out. “Fine. Everything you need to make a door is back in that warehouse. I'll make another eclipse. 3:59 Sunday morning, just before dawn. Be punctual. Don't thank me,” he held up a finger, “Clean up your mess.” He started to walk away, then paused, turning his head slightly in Dean's direction. “Try to bind me again, you'll die before you start.”

“Wait...wait,” Dean stopped him. “I need to ask you something.”

“Really, Dean, you're pressing your luck.”

“I know. I...look, this has been killing me. I need to know something. Before you brought Sam's soul back from Hell, I was having these nightmares...”

“Aww. Poor baby.”

“Listen, I... I dreamt I was in Hell,” he told him. “Right beside the cage. And I could see inside of it. I could see what Lucifer was doing to Sam. I thought they were just nightmares, but then Sam said something the other day...”

“That he saw you,” Death finished for him. Dean's eyes widened and his heart sped up. Death tilted his head a bit. “I suppose it really isn't my place to say.”

“To say what?” he asked, desperate for an explanation. Death merely looked at him. “Are you telling me that it was real? That I was there? How is that possible?”

“You and Sam share a unique bond,” Death mused as he slowly paced a bit with his cane. “Silly little flaw in souls. You've heard of the term 'soulmate',” he queried, glancing at Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, then furrowed his brow. “What exactly are you sayin'? 'Cause Sam and I...dude, you know it's not...like that.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Dean,” he said nonchalantly. “I don't believe that humans truly grasp the sense of what it means. In the beginning, it was meant as a fail-safe. Procreation and all of that. But as the planet became more and more populated, the need for it was slightly diminished to a point. But it does exist, and everyone has one somewhere in the world, whether or not they should ever meet.”

“But most don't,” Dean surmised. 

“Yes. Most don't. But those who do...the bond only grows with time. Becomes stronger.”

“What's the flaw in that?”

“The flaw is sorrow,” he replied. “Losing a soulmate once you've connected in life is usually unsurvivable for the other. They may continue to live, but their entire being is forever changed. There's a connection, you see, that's forged over that time together. Losing it is quite literally losing part of yourself.”

“And you're saying that's what happened with Sam and me?” Dean wasn't sure how to react to this.

“It's happened on several occasions,” Death corrected, “To you both. Don't you remember, Dean?” he asked. “That first plummet, when you lost Sam years ago. You didn't sleep, so you didn't have the nightmares. But the loss was unbearable.”

“He's my brother,” Dean said. “Of course it was unbearable.”

“The pain you feel is much deeper and much more destructive than any normal family bond.” Death paced again. “And when you made the deal and left, Sam became a different person, didn't he? Destructive. A path that he had no choice but to take. And in all reality, however ridiculously stupid it might have been, the average human soulmate would've walked into a life of drugs or alcohol, just the same. The two of you, however, have different...options. It was just a matter of time which one came to him first.”

“You're saying Sam didn't even have a chance, then?”

“The only thing that kept Sam upright, was the hope of getting you back,” Death told him, then shook his head as if the notion were preposterous. “You should have seen the display when Gabriel decided to try and teach him a lesson, before your deal came to term.”

“What?”

“Surely you recall the incident involving whom you thought at the time, was the trickster? Where Sam relived Tuesday over and over?”

“Uh...y-yeah I do. He had to watch me die over and over. But he always woke up and I was fine.”

“Of course he didn't tell you,” Death smirked. “Wouldn't want to worry big brother.”

“Tell me what?” Dean gruffly questioned.

“Gabriel decided to kill you permanently; teach Sam that there was no way to save you. So, for Sam, you were gone for six months that last time he watched you die. And what a machine that turned him into, Dean. You think he was bad without a soul. Imagine him with all of that pain and anguish, walking around doing the same sort of things, desperate to bring you back...”

Dean shook his head, unable to fully grasp what was being said to him. “What are you saying to me, exactly? That we see each others stint in Hell? That my unconscious mind was able to connect enough to actually be there?”

Death tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. 

“But Sam never saw it, when I was in Hell,” Dean argued.

“He did,” Death told him. “The same as you saw his. Only, at the time, his mind wasn't able to process the information; he'd never experienced Hell, himself. So his nightmares were unable to get past the point of consciousness. They'd leave his memory once he woke, only leaving behind bits and pieces of things he knew were terrifying, but nothing that made much sense to link them together. And in the same light, you wouldn't have seen him there, either. His mind wasn't able to grasp it enough to manifest his physical presence there.”

“But I could...because I'd already been there,” Dean surmised. “I don't understand... What does this mean? I mean, what...what does it mean now, to have a soulmate? What are we supposed to do?”

“What you've been doing, obviously,” Death answered. “Keeping each other alive, and saving the world. Or rather, I suppose that's what you should be doing, anyway. So far, you're doing a piss-poor job of it.”

“We're doing the best we can!” Dean defended a bit angrily. 

“Do better,” Death retorted. “No more discussion. You've got your orders. 3:59 Sunday morning. Don't screw it up.”

*~.~*

“He seriously said to do better?” Tony asked incredulously after Dean rehashed what had happened. “Does he not know what you've done already?”

“I think the problem is mostly because he doesn't factor in that we don't all have freaking super powers, and it's a lot damned harder to do this crap when you're a mere mortal.” He completed the statement, then he downed the rest of his glass of whiskey. 

Tony's response was cut off when the sound of breaking glass came from the basement. The two shared a quick glance, then bolted toward the door. They knew Sam had gone down to start a load of laundry, after having insisted he could do it himself. Dean had given him the benefit of the doubt.

“Sam?” Dean called out as they hurried down the stairs. What they saw, they honestly hadn't expected. They thought maybe Sam had knocked over a mason jar with a stray laundry basket. It's why they'd attempted to not seem too worried on their original, yet fast, approach. 

But Sam was standing in the corner, a shovel ready in his hands like a sword. His face showed signs of fear and apprehension. But his eyes focused somewhere and everywhere in the room at seemingly nothing. His body visibly shaking with adrenaline, he swung the shovel at his invisible enemy, knocking down a box from the shelf beside him, causing it to crash to the floor.

“Sam!” Dean rushed forward. “Sam, snap out of it!” he yelled. “You're okay! You're fine! There's nothing there!” Tony was at his side, though they both stayed far enough away in case Sam thought they were also a threat. 

Sam's eyes shifted, and he wavered in his stance. The shovel started to slip from his hands, but the edge hit his forearm right as he tried to grip onto it again. He hissed and dropped the shovel; eyes squeezing shut as he grabbed onto the injured arm.

“Sammy?” Dean stepped forward, catching Sam before he could drop to the floor. Tony quickly grabbed the shovel and put it far out of reach. 

“D-Dean?” Sam blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the person holding onto him.

“Yeah, it's me. Sam, are you okay?”

“I uh...” he cleared his throat, and attempted to straighten himself, seeming out of whatever was just going on in his head. “Yeah. I think so.”

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked.

“I...” he was cut off by the throbbing in his arm, and pulled it away from his chest to examine it.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean grabbed his wrist, looking at the oozing gash on his younger brother's arm. “Cut yourself good. C'mon, let's get upstairs and patch you up.” Sam, with a scrunched face, nodded to his brother. 

Tony watched them as Dean helped Sam up the stairs. He wasn't exactly sure what'd just happened. But he had an idea. Once they got to the top, Tony was shaken from his thoughts and went up after them. He retrieved the first aid kit for Dean, and some household items for stitching Sam up. Avoiding hospitals was more a case of keeping the younger Winchester out of the psych ward than anything else. And Dean seemed to know enough about what he was doing. Once they seemed they didn't need anything else from him, Tony made his way back downstairs to clean up the mess. 

Dean looked Sam in the eyes and asked again, “What was that, Sam? What were you seeing down there?” Sam looked at him, eyes shifting back and forth between his brother's. “Was it Hell? Is that what you're seeing?” Sam looked down a bit; not answering verbally, but it was a confirmation for Dean. “How long has this been going on? I thought this had stopped?”

Sam looked at him. He'd expected him to be pissed that he hadn't told him. But Dean sounded worried; his voice soft and concerned. His face matched that. Sam felt ashamed. “It's not been happening that much,” he told him. “Just...some things, they set it off. I can't explain it. But it's like...everything is how it was there. The way he showed it to me in the cage.”

“How many times has this happened?” Dean asked.

“Just this once,” Sam told him. “Before that, it was just...feelings. Like something wasn't right, ya know? Or I'd...fall asleep at the table, researching, and have a nightmare. But this is the first time I've been awake for one. I swear it, Dean,” he looked him in the eyes.

“You been takin' the meds Ducky gave you?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you need something stronger,” he suggested. “Or maybe just an up in the dose. You could be just getting used to the amount he's been giving you. That's possible, right?”

Sam nodded, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay. We'll talk to Ducky, then. Are you okay? You need something for the pain?” he motioned to Sam's patched up hand. Sam shook his head. “You hungry?”

“No.”

“Well, I am,” he stood. “You can come keep me company. And I can fill you in on my talk with Death.” Sam perked up, at that. He stood and followed Dean into the kitchen, just as Gibbs walked in the front door. “Hey, Gibbs,” Dean said, catching his arrival from the corner of his eye. “About to make something for dinner. You hungry?”

“Sure. Then you can tell me how it went today,” Gibbs mentioned, approaching the kitchen. 

“About to talk to Sam about that. But if it's all the same, I'd like to tell him, first,” Dean told him. Gibbs understood that, and Dean was grateful that he did. 

“Sure,” he nodded. “Where's Tony?”

“He's in the basement, I think,” Dean told him. Sam shrank a bit in his seat. Gibbs saw it, but decided he'd ask Dean about it later, if necessary. 

Gibbs made his way to the basement, leaving the brothers alone. He found his senior field agent sweeping the floor. A pile of glass and nails sat in the middle of his administrations, and there was a box sitting a bit crooked on the shelf, looking like it'd been tossed around a bit. 

“You have a party while I was gone?” Gibbs asked, raising a brow.

Tony looked up, smirking slightly, “Yep. Sorry you missed it, boss. It was pretty epic!”

“Ya don't say,” Gibbs played along.

“Yeah. Sam mistook your...everything...for a pinata.” He stooped down with the dustpan to sweep the debris into it. Gibbs looked at him for further explanation. “Somethin' must be going on with him still. I mean, I think that's what we all figured, anyway. He's seeing stuff, still. He looked pretty scared. Dean pulled him out of it though. Not before he cut open his hand, unfortunately...”

“You're still worried,” Gibbs surmised, tilting his head a bit as he took a seat on a saw horse.

“Worried? I dunno about worried... I mean,” he stood, dumping the dustpan contents into the trash bin, “I'm not sure if there's anyone that can pull him outta those things, besides Dean. What if Dean hadn't been here? I'm wondering how deep those delusions go, if there's no one around to yank him out of it, ya know?”

“You're doing what you can, Tony,” Gibbs assured him. “Ya can't change the way Sam's mind works, and that includes who it chooses to hear, when it's trapped in an episode.”

“I guess...”

“I get that you wish you could do more. I wish that, too, myself. But we're doing what we can, and that...well, that's what we're gonna have to settle for until something changes.” Gibbs watched, eyes narrowed, as Tony nodded, not really meeting his eyes as he continued to clean up. The older man stood and walked over to Tony, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder and forcing him to look at him. “Dean would rather be the one helping Sam, even if it wasn't the only option,” he told him. “The best thing we can do, and have done, is be here for Dean through all of this. And you've done a hell of a job being a friend to him, DiNozzo. Don't think you've not been a great help to him...”

*~.~*

“What the hell does that mean?!” Dean yelled after Crowley explained the current situation.

“It means exactly what I said,” the demon replied. “Castiel has gone on yet another bender. I told him you could help him, but he's not in control at the moment. No light on in the attic, if you catch my drift. We'll be lucky if he snaps out of it any time soon at the rate it's been going, lately.”

“Well that's just perfect,” Dean gruffly replied. “Looks like Death was right. I'm not fit to be the one trying to save the damn planet.”

“It's not as if there are a whole lot of volunteers for the job, though,” Tony said from where he stood across the room. “It's not as if you were given a choice in the matter. Not really.”

“Try telling that to Death,” Dean retorted.

“Ladies, ladies,” Crowley interrupted, “If you're done reassuring one another, I must be off. I'll try and keep track of our wayward angel. Not making any promises, but I'll do what I can.” With that, he was gone. 

“Well this is just great,” Dean threw his hands out in exasperation. “Twenty-four hours to go, and Cas is as zombified as a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.”

“Maybe things will turn around,” Tony suggested.

“Yeah. With the roll we've been on? That seems highly likely.” Dean paused his pacing, which he hadn't even realized he'd started, and got a slightly amused look on his face and looked to Tony. “About as likely as a bacon cheeseburger's chance set in front of Elvis.”

“I think that'd be a peanut butter banana sandwich,” Tony corrected. “Or maybe, a pie's chance in front of Dean Winchester,” he smirked.

Dean tried to stifle a laugh. “A book fair's chance in front of Sam,” he grinned.

“We shouldn't have drank so much of Gibbs' bourbon before Crowley showed up,” Tony let out a small laugh.

“We didn't know Crowley would show up when he did,” Dean retorted. “And besides, I don't think we drank that much.”

“Is it 'drank'? Or 'drunk'?”

“Okay, maybe you drank a bit much,” Dean resigned. “But what the hell, right? The world might go to crap in the next 24 hours. Might as well enjoy it while we can.”

The smile slowly faded from Tony's face as he watched the expression slowly change on Dean's. “I think everything will be okay,” Tony told him in a more serious tone. “I really do. I think...that it seems like it's gonna suck, now. But...maybe...maybe everything will be just fine. I'm like...96 percent sure. I have faith in you, Dean. I have faith that Castiel, wherever his will is at right now, he's gonna fight to get to you in time. And everything will be okay, because that's how you Winchesters do things. You always get the job done. Right?”

Dean thought about that for a moment, looking at his friend, and smiled at him, unwilling to agree, but flattered by the remark. 

*~.~*

21 hours later...

“Yeah, a book fair's chance,” Dean said, before swigging from his beer.

Sam scrunched up his face, confused. “What?”

“Nothin',” he replied, but Tony shook his head, willing himself not to smile at the reference. “Man, we are so screwed.”

“Have you tried, ya know...calling him?” Sam asked. “I mean praying?”

“Yeah right,” Dean scoffed.

“I'm serious,” Sam retorted. “Cas wanted your help, even if he was too ashamed to ask it from you in person. If he's still off on a bender or whatever, maybe what he needs is to know you're here.”

“He knows I'm here, Sam.”

“Yeah but...but maybe he needs to hear it from you.” 

And damn, but that made sense to Dean. Enough, at least, that he'd have to try and prove him wrong, of course. “Fine,” he told him, setting down his bottle. He closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. “Castiel, if you can he-”

“Dean...” Castiel's voice sounded behind him, and Dean's eyes shot open and turned to look at him. The angel was bloody and battered, looking close to death as he leaned heavily against the door frame to the kitchen. “I need your help...” he told him, and began to crumble to the floor. But Dean and Sam were quick to catch him. And as they did, they shared a surprised yet relieved glance...

*~.~*

“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel told him as he stood before the symbol on the warehouse wall. “I should have listened to you; should have known that you were simply...concerned. I...will forever try to make this up to you. I promise...”

“Okay, Cas,” Dean replied, a bit dumbfounded. “Let's...just get this junk outta you, before you go all Hellspawn on us again, okay?” Castiel nodded and turned to face the wall again. Dean looked to Sam, Gibbs, Tony and McGee, who refused to let them do this alone. Sam nodded to Dean, letting him know that he was ready to recite the ritual. And Dean nodded to him, acknowledging the go-ahead.

Sam's recited words caused the door to open where the symbol was drawn on the wall. Castiel turned his head to them one more time, “I really am sorry, Dean...” he told him, before turning and releasing the souls. The bright, brilliant rush of light and energy flowed from the angel's body, and everything seemed to go as planned. But then...then there was something different, and Castiel was crying out, a painful scream as whatever seemed to be trying to hold on, fought him. 

“What's happening?” Gibbs asked, yelling over the noise.

“I...I don't know,” Dean replied. “Cas?”

“Th-they're t-trying to h-hold on...” Castiel replied painfully. “I c-can't...let them. I'm s-sorry...” the angel replied, then bolted toward the door with a speed none of them could've anticipated, as weak as he'd been before this. And just like that, he was gone. The door closing behind him, and his trench coat floating to the floor.

“Wait...” Dean shook his head, confused. “No...No that's not how this was supposed to happen!”

“Dean-”

“Godamnit, no, Sam!” Dean yelled. “That's not...” Dean walked to the door, hopelessness in his eyes as his gaze fell to the coat at his feet. He stooped down to pick it up. “You damned child,” he cursed under his breath. “You stupid son of a bitch,” his voice cracked. This was supposed to be his chance at saving Sam; of getting his Castiel back. And both of those things had just been ripped from him. 

Castiel was gone. He'd made a grave error, and then sacrificed himself to fix it. Dean let out a humorless laugh, “We really did corrupt you, didn't we,” he said, too soft for anyone to hear. “Damnit, Cas... I failed you.” He shook his head. And remembering who all was in the room with him, he took a breath and buried it all deep down where he shoved all of the things he needed to bottle up. 

Dean twisted the coat, rolling it into a careful ball, and turned to his brother. And damn if Sam didn't have an accepting look upon his face, as if everything was going to be just fine and dandy. It tugged the older brother's heart even more. He turned to his friends. They were as shocked as he was. But there was a look of determination among them that told Dean that they wouldn't let him fall now. They would have his back, and his brother's, just like always. And if Sam's problem meant that they weren't going to hunt anymore, then so be it. They'd get through this like they did everything else.

Because they're Winchesters. They always get the job done...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin


End file.
